


"Papa, is that Mr. Gerrard?"

by Booperesque



Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU, BUT THE FIC IS NOT DEVASTATING, Kid Fic, M/M, Steven's totally that cool teacher that you never had, dorky dad fic, pretty devastating not going to lie, start again with 0 kudos!, well two chapters are, yes i managed to accidentally delete this entire fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:02:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 34,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4705325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Booperesque/pseuds/Booperesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“hey we hooked up last night and it turns out you are my child's teacher” au</p><p>Includes: Mr. Gerrard trying to pull skinny jeans on, Pablo the dog wanting bellyrubs, a school camp, baking, broken bones, the Reina clan, and pillow forts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Your face is not warning anyone away, mate.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [also, the author is an idiot, and accidentally deleted the entire thing.] 
> 
> [your precious comments did not go unloved and i'll be honest: i'm devastated they are gone.] [anyway leave a comment and say hi, even if you never have before!]
> 
> [if you were 'following' this or whatever, that entire work is gone, so that won't work anymore, same for bookmarks, all the kind of rubbish.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops

Usually if he wakes any later than six, it’s a dreary Sunday and some nine year old ratbag has let the dog into his room. But when Xabi’s elbow hits something while he’s in the process of splaying out his arm: it’s not the dog. There’s a groan ( _also, for the record, not the dog_ ) and someone attempting to bury into his armpit.

 

Xabi rubs at this jaw, and it’s sore _(jesus when did--_ ). It’s between this and a realisation that there is a man drooling on his chest right now, that he decides with a some sense of detachment that: _yes, he should let his kid go to more sleepovers._

 

“Mmmh,” says the man.

 

Xabi pries an eye open, his vision southbound. God, it has been fucking _years._ “Hello,” he mutters, followed by a slightly more appropriate: “uh… hey.”

 

The man lifts his head from where it was nestled under Xabi’s arm. “Uh,” the man manages. “Do I know— did we— where—” 

 

Xabi shrugs, pulls himself up to rest his back against the bed head. “Xabi,” he holds out his hand.

 

“Stevie,” the man says, his head still flat on the sheets and little attempt being made to shake Xabi’s hand.

 

Xabi lets his hand fall, realises perhaps that shaking hands was not the most appropriate post-coital etiquette available. He convinces his brain into giving himself a break (it has been many years, ok?). “Should I order breakfast or--?”

 

Stevie grins up at him, mouth wide and dopey- frighteningly like his dog. “What’s the time, eh?” His hand is fluffing around on the bedside table before grasping his phone. “Oh, _fuck.”_

 

“No to breakfast?”

 

“It is fucking eight in the goddamn—”  Stevie’s no longer staring at him with smokey bedroom eyes that Xabi would be more than happy to have another round (or three) with. Instead he’s wrangled a pair of boxers on and is hopping around like a lunatic with one leg stuck in a pair of skinny jeans.

 

Xabi frowns. Was there protocol for this? To be fair, he thinks, I hadn’t checked the time either. At least Jon’s at Pepe’s place and I don’t have to dread school drop-off in this weather.

 

When Stevie’s butt hits the floor he still doesn’t have the other leg into his pants. Chuckling softly, Xabi feels slightly vindicated that he just had a one night stand with a massive dork.

 

“In a rush?” He ventures with all of the poise of a man who has this Friday off.

 

Glaring up at him, Stevie looks about as far from amused as one could be while they’re wiggling around on the floor. “My class starts in 25 minutes,” he groans pulling on a t-shirt ( _hey, that is not yours,_ Xabi notes).

 

_Oh shit, how old was this guy_? “Are you student?”

 

Stevie rolls his eyes. “No you ass, I’m a teacher and my class starts in 24 minutes and I am borrowing your socks,”

 

_Huh. Cute for a teacher._ “So, no time for breakfast?”

 

He gets a laugh on that one, and- as the bed dips with the weight of the guy who fucked him sitting back down on it to put shoes on- a kiss too. “Don’t tempt me.”

 

Xabi runs a hand through his hair. “I had fun last night,”

 

Stevie’s doing his laces. “Yeah.”

 

“I mean, I don’t usually do this—” 

_“Yeah.”_

 

“Maybe it was obvious but—” 

 

“Xabi. It was fine.”

 

Xabi wonders whether fine is how he’d describe it. Maybe _fine_ , but not just… fine.

 

Stevie’s up in front of his mirror now, trying to push his hair into some semblance of order, or… teacherness. His eyes catch something, however, and he leans closer. “Did you bite me?”

 

“Uh.” Xabi would like to say that he remembers, but.

 

“I teach third grade,” he sighs.

 

Xabi cocks an eyebrow. _Huh._ “Well if you wore a shirt then they wouldn’t—”  his words trail off as he sees what must have once been Stevie’s shirt, perched gracelessly on one of the lampshades, long abandoned by its buttons. “Oh, sorry.” Stevie just shakes his head.

 

“I’m sure that was as much my fault as yours.” He’s shrugged on a leather jacket now and Xabi wonders what he would have given to have had a teacher like him, though, perhaps not in third grade. “21 minutes, mate, I gotta go,” Stevie says as he kisses Xabi again. “But I had a good time too.”

 

He shrugs shyly. “Yeah,”

 

Stevie’s in leaning against the door frame now. “Apart from the beard rash you hairy beast!”

 

“My beard is fair warning of that at face value!” Xabi calls out as he watches Stevie leave, blaming his embarrassing levels of infatuation with this man on the fact that he hasn’t had a one night stand in ten or so years.

 

Stevie ducks his head back in. “Your face is not warning anyone away, mate.”

_Stop it,_ Xabi thinks.

 

“Thanks for the shirt!” Stevie yells before Xabi hears the front door slam shut.

 

He flops back on the bed. Why didn’t the teachers at his son’s parent-teacher meetings look like that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Me before writing this: I don't write chapter fics.
> 
> -Naturally this serves as procrastination, also I'm watching West Wing, so perhaps I  
> want more characters accidentally waking up in bed together.
> 
> -So, this will probably have chapters, if you want?


	2. “That looks like my dad’s t-shirt.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's not as though the t-shirt is anything special anyway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, it's a regular t-shirt and this is what stevie looked like leaning against the doorway while complaining about xabi's face, when the guy was still naked in bed:

 

 He's quite successfully managed to avoid any major “Mr. Gerrard is your jaw bleeding?” or “Sir? Your laces are wrong,” before the bell goes for recess and he is able to rectify both problems. Unfortunately the staff are less forgiving and Stevie is left wondering if the walk of shame might continue all day.

 

It’s when he’s on lunch duty, however, that his phone buzzes.

 

_[At some point you were sober enough to put your number in my phone. I’ve got your socks and shirt if you want me to drop them off?]_

  
And then, in quick succession:

_[It’s Xabi]_

_[From last night?]_

 

Stevie does a sweep of the playground before thumbing back: [Yes, I do actually remember who you are.] He swings his foot at a stray ball that lands nearby. It flies far further than the pitch the kids were playing on. He grins cheekily at the girl’s team when the boys cry: “Mr. Gerrard that was OUR corner!” before they sprinting off after it.

 

_[Ah, yes. Well.]_

 

Stevie groans and wonders how much of an idiot he was to give his number to some guy who he really only wanted to suck off for a bit and then go home and sleep for a couple of hours. Maybe he could get away with just deleting Xabi’s texts?

_[Do you want your shirt back? I rather liked mine.]_

  
For Christs sake, had this bloke not bothered to look at this state of his shirt? Rubbing at his eyes he pockets his phone, cracks his knuckles and goes back to reffing the game. “Harriet you can’t keep kicking him when he’s down!” He turns to nudge the kid with his foot. “Jon, stop diving you know there’s no way I’m giving you a penalty!”

 

Jon looks up at him blamelessly with all of the audacity of the most traumatising nine year old in his class.

 

Stevie rocks back on the balls of his feet. _“What.”_ he asks.

 

The kid smirks, says, “That looks like my dad’s t-shirt.”, runs off.

 

 _No it doesn’t,_ Stevie thinks, and decides to never give this boy a free kick.

 

By the time he makes it back to his desk and goes to put the phone into his draw he has six unread messages and he regrets kissing this bloke two times too many this morning.

 

Last night was fucking wonderful, he agrees with that, but it’s not as though he can regularly spend his Thursday nights and Friday mornings in bed with some ginger bearded god who wants to rim him for way longer than is necessary. Although, if they could limit it to once-a-week maybe on a Saturday at three pm it would work with his marking schedule? He doubts that texting that back would go well.

 

[I finish at 3, you could swing by then?] He finally replies.

 

_[Can’t do 3.]_

 

“Well you’re not getting your t-shirt back then,” Stevie mutters and chucks his phone into the draw. “Alright guys, let’s go over the homework!” and boy, does he feel their groans on a spiritual level. “Oh get on with it.”

 

And to be fair, for the most part, they do. Apart from Jon Alonso and his sidekick Luca Kaka who Stevie just knows has been unwillingly dragged into this sedition plot to mutter things about their teacher’s hairline every time a question is asked.

 

The kid’s cheeky, and again, it’s mostly manageable. He’ll hold them back at the end of the lesson, tell Luca to find better friends and then ask Jon why he doesn’t just say the answers that he obviously knows. Jon will ask him what happened to Stevie's hair and they’ll move on.

  
Except that- a ball of paper hits his head.

 

“Jon.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Gerrard?”

  
Stevie bites his lip. “Do you know the answer, lad?”

 

“Yes sir, it’s 67.”

 

Stevie sighs and wonders when he stopped being the cool teacher. “Okay,”

 

But then, within minutes, a pile of paper balls have appeared on the desk in front of the Alonso kid, and in equally quick succession to the texts he got during the day- Stevie finds himself being hit in the face by a half a dozen balled pages of last week’s homework.

 

Once the bombardment ceases, Stevie steals a glance at the clock. There’s three minutes left so— “alright class, you guys get an early mark today.”

 

Jon’s smart enough to not move an inch. He utters a singular: “bye” to Luca and avoids his teacher’s gaze. Stevie’s offered twenty or so: “Bye sir”’s and then the room falls silent again.

 

“Jon, c’mon. You’ve got to clean up the mess you made.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

Stevie finally catches his eye. “Is something up, kid? You guys lost fair and square at lunch.”

 

Jon uses the same precision to bin the paper balls in record time, and then says: “You sure that's not my dad’s t-shirt?”

 

Stevie’s never met his dad, _so,_ “it's not, lad.”

 

The boy sniggers willfully at this, “ _okay._ ” He sits back down at his desk, “Sorry for throwing things at you, sir.”

 

Jesus. “Alright, Jon, but this is the last time, yeah? Otherwise I’ll have to send a letter home.” Stevie’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “Off you go, then.”

 

_[Left your stuff in my mailbox. Trade?]_

 

Stevie groans, what the hell is with this goddamn t-shirt?

 


	3. "At least one of us has a tight arse.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dogs get separation anxiety, okay?

Xabi finds himself outside the school in a conversation about microeconomics and profit margins with the mums who run the canteen, so he's met with a ball kicked at his arse (which, by the way, ow) and a snarky: "Hola Papa,"

 

"Jontxu," he says, turning from the mothers only to have Jon's sleeping bag thrust into his chest. "How was Pepe's, hijo?"

 

Jon shrugs, "Uncle Pepe lets us put our feet on the couch."

 

"Uncle Pepe _is_  a slob."

 

"Uncle Pepe is  _fun,_  dad."

 

Xabi waves goodbye to the canteen mums and finds himself wondering when his nine year old turned nineteen and if it was somewhere around the time when this “cool” Mr. Gerrard (who encourages the entire class to do ballet AND fútbol) began teaching, and if so, he should really have words with him and perhaps tell him that Jon doesn’t need any encouraging down the path of the anarchist alternative (but that he appreciates the dancing). He’s not one to particularly mind single fatherhood, but the reassurance that HE’S ONLY FRICKEN’ NINE every so often might be welcome.

 

"Did you feed Pablo?"

 

“I thought that was your job?”

 

“Daaaaaad.”

 

“Jon, don’t interfere, I am trying to starve your hound.”

 

“DAD!”

  
Xabi decides he should probably be worried about how little faith his son has in him. He takes pity. “Pablo was fed, yes.”

 

Jon clambers into the backseat of the car where his dad reinforces that he has been permanently relegated to. “Did you let him sleep on your bed?” Xabi stares at him, wide-eyed.

 

“No.” (Not if it was the last day on earth, dawg.)

 

“Mr. Gerrard said that dogs get sad faster than us. He must have been lonely without me, Pa.”

 

It’s true; Pablo lasted all of ten minutes after Jon had been dropped off before whining and running circles around Xabi’s feet in failed attempt to receive just one pat. Xabi suspected that the dog had got even sulkier last night, when no sooner had he been introduced to a very handsy Stevie (more than willing to give pats), did Xabi (not at all willing to give pats) whisk his new play friend off to the bedroom and lock Pablo out.

 

Admonishing his own guilt, he turns up the radio and drops Jon off at Karate.

 

He returns home to find the hound getting bellyrubs on the front porch from none other than Stevie (who has slipped the destroyed shirt from the night before over a football jersey). Pablo barely spares Xabi a glance as he comes in the gate and pants indulgently at Stevie.

 

“Hi,”

 

“I like your dog.”

 

“That’s good,” Xabi somewhat snarls, “because my son’s teacher thinks that dogs get lonely if they’re not the center of attention all the time.”

 

Pablo stares at Stevie adoringly. Stevie stares back. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s true.”

 

 _Urgh_. “Did you bring my t-shirt?”

 

“Yes you tight-arse, it’s ironed and everything.”

 

“You just _stole_  my favourite tee.” Xabi glances down at him, “and at least one of us has a tight arse.”

 

Stevie seems to have set up camp lying on the porch next to the lummox of hound. Yet he sits up and narrows his eyes, the red mark Xabi left on his jaw, far, far from fading. “You rimmed me for WAY longer than was necessary.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah.  _I_  fucked  _you_  anyway.”

 

“Did you not like it?” Stevie quietens at that and Xabi preens. “Steven, if you didn’t like it you should have said something. Communication is import—” 

 

Giving Pablo a final belly rub, Stevie rises, steps closer to Xabi and jabs him in the chest. “Shut it,” he breathes (and he is way too close, Xabi has elderly neighbours who will—) “you know damn well I wasn’t complaining.” And if Stevie’s honest, he knows that Xabi’s not complaining about his arse either because he definitely remembers being pushed, ass up, onto the bed and licked out for something close to an hour.

 

“Yes,” Xabi clicks his tongue, “ _well.”_

 

God, on that topic he vaguely remembers having Xabi's dick pressed up against him as well at some point, and that could be—. Maybe— “Want to go for another drink?”

 

Xabi makes a face. “My kid’s at karate, I have to do pickup in half an hour.”

 

“Ah, yeah of course. Another day then.”

 

“Stevie?”

 

“Yeah?” Stevie’s grinning as he drapes himself against the gate, back pressed up on front fence, biceps bulging (that is not fair, you are a _teacher,_  Xabi thinks, _stop it_ ) and looks up at him with something in his eyes that Xabi should really be worried about.

 

“Maybe not.”

 

Stevie glances at his sneakers and back up. “Huh?”

 

“M-maybe not… another day.”  _Oh._  “Look, I’m sorry, it’s just- my kid's at that age where…”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“It’s  _not._ ” Because it's really not. He found himself spending most of the day planning to woo Stevie back into bed and then ended up realising that a) his nine year old doesn't know he's into dudes and b) he loves that nine year old more than anything and bringing strange men home wouldn't amuse Jon unless they played fútbol or brought another dog. He bites his lip and wishes that Stevie didn't have to rush off that morning and that maybe they could have gone another round or two and then it would have been-  _enough._  

 

“No, really, I get it.” And he does, Stevie really gets it, it’s just a shame because, geez, good parenting is a turn on. “I’m a teacher, yeah? I get it.” But it’s not as though there are loads of hunky single dads that happen to like sleeping with men. It’s not as though there are any hunky single dads that want to sleep with Stevie (anymore) that’s for sure.

 

Xabi smiles weakly at him. "I better—” he gestures inside, "I'll— thanks for dropping by."

 

With a wave at him, Stevie says: "Thanks for the shirt." When he’s made it out the gate he yells: "BYE PABLO!" just before the door closes. As it does, he trips, his face hitting the path with enough force to make the hickey someone left on his jaw disappear into the mass of grazed skin. “Frick.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does mr. gerrard teach ballet as well?
> 
> does xabi end up getting a call from jon's teacher about an incident?
> 
> PABLO LOVES STEVIE but does Stevie end up finding another hunky single dad to bed?
> 
> (if you answer the questions, maybe i'll write one of them)


	4. "... This is Mr. Alonso, Jon's father."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see comment on chapter 3: [i'm thinking Jontxu gets in trouble yet again (maybe kicking some boy for messing with Luca??) and papa and Mr Gerrard meet again at the Principal's office? just saying... HAHAHAHAHAHAH]

"Mr. Alonso, thank you for joining us."  Xabi's met the principal before, though admittedly not under these circumstances. He can't take his eyes off Jon, who is looking as young as he remembers, god, Xabi just wants to hug him, and Jon won't even look up.

  
He nods, shakes the hand he's offered. "I'm Mrs. Taylor," the principal continues on, "And Mr. Gerrard is about to join us."

  
Xabi kneels down to meet Jon's level. "Hijo," he whispers, looking at Jon's quivering lip, "you okay?"

  
Jon nods once, "Pap—  _I didn't_... I..."

  
Pulling out a handkerchief for Jon's eyes, he finally looks at her. "What—"

  
"One second sir, Jon's teacher is just coming to explain." She says, almost causing Jon's snivels to start again. Xabi rubs his shoulder, knows he needs no reassurance that his boy is not growing up too fast.

  
"Este problema es mío, okay?" He mumbles into Jon's ear. "I'll deal with this."

  
"Ah, Mr. Gerrard, thank you for joining us. This is Mr. Alonso, Jon's—" oh fuck, Stevie says, as Mrs. Taylor, eyes bulging, yells: "Steven!" Jon thinks she sounds angrier at Mr. Gerrard than at him, but he doubts Mr. Gerrard is going to get in this much trouble.

  
"Sorry ma'am."

  
"... This is Mr. Alonso, Jon's father."

  
_"Yes,"_  Steven says, " _I can see that."_   _Fuck,_  Steven thinks,  _fuck._

  
Xabi just stares at him, and pulls himself up from kneeling beside Jon. He decides that not going for that second drink with Stevie last week might just be the best decision he has ever made for his son. Steven looks sore, his face grazed, and Xabi can't see the bite he made anymore, which, circumstances considered, is probably for the best. And also; fuck- this is Mr. Gerrard who taught Jon about long division, who taught him that dogs get lonely ( _you'll pay for that)_  and that if his son wants to do ballet or wear dresses sometimes that that is totally okay? Mr. Gerrard is Stevie? The one with the dick that was buried way too deep inside him all of one week ago? He's so torn. Is the man to blame for his son's tears because if—

  
Perhaps a little put off by the deathly silence, the principal continues, "Mr. Gerrard is going to explain why you've been called here." Stevie's staring at Jon's dad. What the fuck. Did Xabi know who he was? What the hell was he playing at? "Why don't you both take a seat?" She says.

  
Xabi kisses Jon's hair. "Hijo, it's okay," he says, thumbing away another tear threatening to fall. "I love you," he whispers, "it's okay."

  
Stevie's chest surges, his heart thudding at a pace verging on psychotic. This isn't fair.

  
"Mr. Gerrard, is going to explain," Mrs. Taylor repeats slowly.

  
"Uh, yes. Uh. Jon is here because of an incident at lunch," an incident which really he is proud of— "he uh, Jon kicked another boy, who uh, fell and hurt his leg."

  
Xabi raises an eyebrow at Jon, who for all the terror he's caused he has never— "How bad is the boy's leg?"

  
Mr. Gerrard shrugs, "Well, Matt's in hospital. He uh, broke his leg when he fell."

  
Jon glares at Stevie, and says, steadfast: "He. Deserved. It."

  
Stevie says, "Jon," but he's so close to wanting to give this kid a hug. Xabi doesn't even know where to look anymore.

  
Mrs. Taylor, however is having less trouble with that as she stares at Jon with surprise, "He _did not_  deserve it, young man."

  
Jon looks up at Xabi, teary eyed again. "B-b-but you said—" shit, Xabi thinks, what the fuck did I say? "Y-you said  _always_." Always brush your teeth, kid, always give hugs and smile and try your best and— "You said to always stand up for your friends." Yes, Xabi thinks. Damn fucking right.

  
Mr. Gerrard looks at Jon. "Kid, what happened before you kicked Matt?" He asks with all the kindness in the world and Xabi wants to— Xabi just wants to— Xabi wants, okay?

  
Jon glares at the ground. "Matt hurt Luca," he huffs. "Matt has been stealing Luca's stuff all week, and then today he took Luca's lunch, and he threw it away and—" Jon takes a deep breath, "He pushed him on the ground." He meets his dad's eyes, and then Mr. Gerrard's. "He hurt Luca, and I was, I— I just wanted him to stop."

  
Xabi might just be the proudest he's ever been.

  
Mr. Gerrard squats down beside Jon's chair so that they're on the same level; he squeezes Jon's shoulder, "Hey? It's okay." Jon's crying again like he was at the end of lunchtime when Stevie got called to deal with it, and Stevie's heart sinks, he knows damn well Mrs. Taylor's not particularly impressed and he doesn't want kids like Jon to change.

  
Xabi stares at the principal. "Okay, between Mr. Gerrard's and my son's explanation, I think I have a pretty good idea of what happened at lunch."

  
"He's going to have to apologise," she says.

  
Jon says: "I'm not sorry."

  
"Maybe not," she says, "but nevertheless, you will have to apologise."

  
"Jon," Mr. Gerrard whispers, "You can write a letter. You won't have to tell him you're sorry," he glances at Xabi, "you just have to write that you are, okay?" Jon nods, kind of just throws his arms around Stevie. Stevie rubs his back. "Is Luca okay?"

  
"Y-y-yes sir, I gave him my lunch."

  
"Haven't eaten, have you?"

  
"N-no sir."

  
Stevie smiles conspiratorially at Jon, "do you know that means you can probably pester your dad to buy you a burger on the way home?" He grins at Xabi as if to say: you're buying him a burger or I damn well am.

  
Jon glances at his dad, who shrugs, turns back to the principal and says: "Are we done here?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoooooooo, does this count as a climax?
> 
> what did you think? they should probably get married right? or at least let stevie come for burgers?


	5. “What the hell did you have on your hands?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "yea" votes to burgers were victorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T GET USED TO TWO UPDATES IN A DAY

Xabi’s bouncing Jon up and down on his knee while they’re sitting on the chairs outside the office. Jon’s still hiccupping a little tearily, but after a hair ruffle from Mr. Gerrard and a big hug from dad he’s definitely feeling a little better, and a little vindicated too, Matt almost made Luca cry, so.

 

“Hey there,” Mr. Gerrard says, approaching them with Jon’s backpack slung over his shoulder and both hands on the last diorama project that he hasn’t managed to convince the boy to take home yet. “Are you feeling a bit better, Jon?”

 

Jon nods, but he’s still not smiling like the maniac ratbag that likes to throw paper planes and balls and well, likes to throw things generally at Stevie.

 

Xabi still can’t stop staring. Can’t stop— Stevie is Mr. Gerrard and this is so super inappropriate and oh god, Stevie is so good with Jon and it’s all a little too much to handle after being pulled out of a meeting on fiscal investment in Norway, so yeah, he keeps gawking at Mr. Gerrard’s arse a little bit. What of it.

 

“I’ve got your project on those Humboldt penguins to give back. And I know didn’t want to take it because you can’t play football after school if you’re lugging this around hey? I was the same, Jon.” Boy was he. Football after school was the only appeal to school at all until the realisation hit him that teaching was possibly the most satisfying feeling in the world.

 

“Anyway, I figured your dad might be able to carry it home for you today, yeah?”

 

Jon nods. “Papa?”

 

“Sí, hijo, of course.” Xabi says, setting Jon on the chair beside him and taking the diorama.

 

Stevie sits down next to Jon. “Did you manage to wrangle that burger?”

 

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Jon nods. “Yes! Dad said we could get milkshakes too!”

  
Stevie can’t help but smile, can’t help but think—. Glancing around, he leans closer to Jon, murmurs: “You can’t tell anyone this, kiddo, but I’m really proud of you for sticking up for Luca today,” Jon looks at him with wide eyes. “And of course, I suggest violence is not the answer, yeah? But you were a good friend today, and you deserve that milkshake.”

 

Jon’s eyes shine. “Thanks, sir.” He’s beaming as he looks to his dad.

 

Xabi swallows weakly, his Adam’s apple bumping against the coarse hair of his neck. “Do, you, uh, Jon— do you want to invite Mr. Gerrard to come with us?” He likes to think he’s doing a pretty good job of not pashing Mr. Gerrard right now, but he’s honestly not sure how long he’s going to last.

 

“Will you sir?!” With a level of observance that surprises himself, Stevie notes that Jon’s bright face looks rather like Pablo, begging for pats. Catching Stevie’s eye, Xabi shrugs.

 

He bites his lip. “I’m always up for burgers.” And if he had kids that smiled at him everyday like Jon is now, they could honestly pay him nothing.

 

They stand up, and Xabi reaches for Jon’s schoolbag only to be brutally rebuffed with an: “I got it; you need two hands for his project- those playdough penguin chicks at the bottom kind of wobble.”

 

Xabi gawks at him  _oh my god where did you even come from_ and are you less of a… less of this— in bed because I honestly don’t remember much.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Okay, so, he’s not entirely sure that inviting Stevie to burgers was the best idea in the world. Jon is certainly stoked about getting a caramel milkshake, cheese burger, and Mr. Gerrard’s addition of cheesy fries, all of which he entirely deserves because, hell yeah, his kid is awesome. A totally maniac most of the time, but a good maniac. Xabi thinks he’ll write the letter so that Jon doesn’t have to deal with that shit.

 

However burgers lead to Jon trying to explain the entire plots of Frozen 3 and How to Train Your Dragon 5 at the same time to Mr. Gerrard. Who, if Xabi is honest, must have done a training course that specialised in how to remain engaged with nine year olds who are eating and drinking and talking all at once.

 

Xabi though, has spent the whole time making eyes at the teacher in question. Making eyes and wondering the best way to break him. Stevie had lasted a solid 45 minutes with Xabi’s tongue pressed up against, up against, and finally, in his arse a week ago. A solid 45 minutes before he’d finally cracked, growled and barked: “ _get your fucking hands against the wall”_.

 

And yeah, fine. He feels guilty for the,  _“no we can’t do this again”,_  thing. But that doesn’t mean he can’t think about rutting against Stevie in some vastly inappropriate place and getting himself off and you know what? Maybe biting him again.

 

At some point of not paying attention to his burger he managed get tomato sauce all over his hands, but it’s fine, he’s totally getting away with it until Stevie gives him a look, and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Jon glances at him, but aware that he has already recited both film plots to his dad numerous times, he’s back to making precarious stacks with his fries.

 

“Uh, you’re okay here for a minute, right?”

 

Jon looks at him blankly. “Dad, I am  _nine_.”

 

Xabi’s not quite sure that that even counts as an answer but he really just has to—

 

And look, yeah, he was aware that Stevie would probably be pissing (he is), and would probably be a little confused (completely?), but he wasn’t aware that the response would be: “You gotta stop looking at me like that,”

 

Eloquent as ever with his tongue around this bloke, Xabi manages: “uh, what?”

 

Stevie glances at the other man in the urinal and back at Xabi. “You can’t look at me like that in front of your kid it’s— you said we couldn’t, and, I mean Jon is a great kid, I totally get that we can’t, I...”

 

The other guy leaves.

 

“I just, you can’t look like you want to eat me just after you said that—”

  
Xabi kind of just pushes him up against one of the stalls and kisses him. Stevie groans, “We can’t—” he tries, even though he’s got this lunatic's tongue rubbing a disgustingly appealing pattern against his own and one hand carding in his hair. But when Xabi reaches for his open jeans Stevie has to— “no.”

 

Xabi stops, steps back. “Frick,” he says. “I’m sorry, I…” Stevie’s grasping at his own boxers and tugging them up slightly more. He buttons his pants, and he’s still got his back flush up against the stall. Xabi’s staring at the floor. “Sorry— I know what I said.”

 

Stevie runs a hand through his hair. “Did you get— what the hell did you have on your hands?”

 

“Oh.”

 

Cocking an eyebrow, Stevie takes Xabi’s wrists in his fingers, tenses them slightly. Presses down on that P6 pressure point and watches Xabi bites back a moan. He smirks at him, and presses Xabi’s saucy hands up against his clean, white, totally ironed this morning, dress shirt. “Whoops.” He says.

  
Xabi narrows his eyes. “I—”

 

Stevie hums amusedly, and upon running his fingers through his hair again, collects enough sauce to press his own palm up against Xabi’s chest once more. “Don’t try and pash me when you’ve got this shit all over you.” He says, washes his hands, and walks back out to Jon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops i slipped on the keyboard
> 
> If the next chapter includes: They look at Pablo, who is just on the porch like: everyone knows guys. Well done. Time to come inside and give belly rubs. ARE YOU IN?


	6. “I want—"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pablo's not impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #iliedaboutpablolasttime (This was not the intention for this chapter)

Pablo looks far from impressed when Stevie arrives on his doorstep at 11pm (he wags his tail furiously. did you know, he thinks, that master is usually in bed by 10? did you know that if master is in bed by 10, i can get in there at 11? i don’t think you knew that, Pablo thinks, because last time you were here, the door was locked. do you know what that means? i had to sleep on the couch.)

 

Stevie scratches Pablo’s chest and (no you don’t, Pablo thinks, don’t try and—oh) he pants adoringly. (betrayal, Pablo thinks as his scratch reflex kicks in, complete and utter betrayal)

 

“Who’s a good doggie?” Stevie coos, “yes you are!” before (oh no, Pablo thinks, you’re going to— belly rubs!!!) letting Pablo roll onto his back. Panting and wagging his tail pathetically Pablo decides that this is general nightmare and he also hopes that master never interrupts.

 

Pablo rarely gets his way. Master is suddenly standing at the door in those hideous plaid pyjama bottoms that everyone knows should have been thrown out years ago, but it’s not as though anyone is around to say it, and (he was totally asleep, Pablo thinks, i would have been allowed in).

 

Xabi rubs at his eyes, “Stevie,” he murmurs, nervously scratching at the neck of his cotton sweatshirt.

 

Stevie stands up (no, Pablo thinks, don’t go i’m sorry), “hey.” He can’t help it, Xabi has obviously just pulled that top on and it’s not quite covering the lower left quadrant of his stomach and Stevie can’t actually remember the last time he jacked off to something so… well un-obscene, but at least he’d have this image in his head for a month.

 

“Uh,” Xabi’s face steals his eyes again. “It’s eleven? Which, I know, isn’t really that late but—“ he looks, well, he looks fuckable, Stevie decides. Very, very fuckable and if he had his way then they could have already sucked each other off and been asleep by now.

 

“It's late,” Stevie cuts in, “it’s late for me too.”

 

Grimacing, Xabi glances down at the dog. “Ah,” he says, “um.”

 

“Oh, uh, I was here to—“ he pulls a letter from the back pocket of his jeans. “This is uh, an official write up of what happened… uh.” He offers it to Xabi. “I just, I needed to drop it off because uh, I wanted to make it clear that Jon’s not going to be in any further trouble, I wasn’t… we weren’t going back on our word. He just needs to write an apology.”

 

“Right.” Xabi clucks.

 

“Shit, uh. Look I just wanted you to know that— he’s a good kid and—”

 

“I know.”

 

“What?”

 

“I know he’s a good kid.”

 

 _Frick, what are you doing?_ Stevie thinks. He says “cool”, stares at the soft hair that is gracing Xabi’s tummy, kinda wishes he fucked Xabi on his back so that he could have rubbed his hands against it just once. Kinda wishes he hadn’t been drunk.

 

The hound is staring at them both now. (what the hell, Pablo thinks, you’re not doing anything can you scratch my neck?) It whines.

 

Xabi tears his eyes away from Stevie to glance down at it. “What do you want.” He yawns. Pablo looks to Stevie instead (c’mon, he thinks,  _you_  do something).

 

“Uh, yeah, anyway— sorry for waking you up.” Stevie says, trying to refrain from punching himself in the face. “And uh, sorry for saying no today.”

 

Xabi frowns, gently pointing out: “Stevie, never apologise for saying no. I didn’t mean for you to be, I didn’t mean for—I didn’t mean to put you in that situation. To make you uncomfortable.”

 

“Yes,” Stevie reasons, “but uh, I didn’t want to say no… I… I didn’t want to say no to  _you_.” (ugh, Pablo huffs, what is taking so long? just go back to bed, master) Xabi’s flushed red now, his cheeks rosy and yeah, Stevie wants to kiss him. And yeah, Stevie wants to suck on his neck and get his hands on that stomach hair, but to get there he has to continue: “I want—“

 

“Daaaaaadd!” The sound of feet bounding down two stairs at a time graces their ears. “Dad I can’t sleep, can I have some warm milk?” The pitter patter gets closer and then: “Mr. Gerrard?”

 

Pablo wants to smirk. This definitely means a bed to curl up on if little master is still awake. He goes to sit at Jon’s feet.

 

“Hey Jon, I was just dropping something off for your dad.” Stevie bites at his lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?

 

Jon nods way too enthusiastically for a boy who has meant to have been asleep for two hours. “Yessss!” He tugs on Xabi’s sleeve. “Papa? Pleeaaassseeee can I have milk?”

 

Xabi’s beard [audibly crinkles](http://booperesque.tumblr.com/post/114757059542/too-visceral) when he scratches it, and he shrugs. “Yeah. Come on, I’ll heat it up.”

 

“Bye Mr. Gerrard!”

 

“Bye Jon,” Stevie looks at Xabi, looks at his belly, his bed hair, his awful pants, just looks at  _him_. “Bye.”

 

(canon plaid pyjamas and english poetry)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you guys are following the comments, you'll know that i'm essentially writing your  
> ideas. (so, that does mean you have to continue??? in saying that i'm partial to an  
> ending of "bye".)  
> PSA: it has also been pointed out that my Australian vernacular is slipping in. So:  
> pash=snog, and ratbag=trouble maker.


	7. “Dude, your son is the ringleader.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The parents committee rope Jon's dad into chaperoning the school camp.

It has been all of two weeks that Xabi has been left sulking about the embarrassment of being caught in his pyjamas before he ends up in the same room as Stevie again.

 

He has been conscripted, and he wants the record to read:  **conscripted**  into chaperoning this mid-year grade three camp with Hayley’s mum. So now he finds himself at 7pm the night before departure with three clipboards of names, allergies, and cabin lists thrust into his chest by the president of the parents’ committee.

 

Possibly noticing that Jon’s dad looks as though he is in physical pain, the president says: “We _did_  send an email around where you could volunteer for last month’s barbeque instead.”

 

He knew his number was up, but nevertheless: Frick.

 

Hayley’s mum seems less unperturbed, like, completely unperturbed as she leans over Xabi’s shoulder to read through the itinerary. He knows that she was given her own but now probably isn’t the best time to make a fuss. Oh jesus, he thinks, don’t put your hand  _there._  Objectively speaking, he knows that she’s attractive in the way that most single dads wouldn’t even consider saying no to, and yet…

 

Thank god the door swings open.

 

“Jenny, Xabi, this is Mrs. O’Neill, and Mr. Gerrard, two of the teachers who are going to be on camp with you.” Oh god, he really should have seen this coming. “And guys, this is Hayley’s mum and Jon’s dad.” Hayley’s mum tries to untangle herself from Xabi to greet them.

 

Mrs. O’Neill, all of, perhaps 65 gives him a look as if to say: ‘not on camp’, and Xabi wants to yell: ‘how about not  _ever?_ ’

 

* * *

 

 

Pablo, beyond his control is dropped off at Casa de Reina for the three days. Master gives him a little pat on the head and Pablo thinks (really? that’s it?) so he licks Xabi’s face (sucker).

 

He loads two of Pepe’s kids into the back with Jon and yeah, they’re at the school by 5:58am. Shamelessly, he puts on his sunglasses and hopes that Hayley’s mum will be discouraged by the [chest hair peeking out of the top of his grey t-shirt](http://41.media.tumblr.com/2451bcbc19c2a1af6bd5d5085e3fa931/tumblr_nm75itmcht1rm98uyo1_1280.jpg).

 

Laden with their overnight and sleeping bags Xabi pushes Jon and both Reina children off towards the playground before banging his head against the car, and then once more for good measure. He grabs his own duffle bag and sighs, heading off for the bus.

 

Mr. Gerrard looks irritatingly chirpy for six in the morning, and he’s also the only one who’s seen him in those pjs, a secret Xabi has every intention on taking to the grave, so he glares at him. Stevie’s in conversation with Jenny though, which probably means Xabi should go over there. He’s pointing to certain groups of kids and she’s looking between her clipboard and the busses and Xabi would almost rather be at work. Mr. Gerrard waves him over. “G’morning,”

 

“Hah,” Xabi says, and feels Stevie’s eyes trail down to the neckline of his shirt. How validating, he manages to think, but then:

 

Jenny’s palm is on his face. “You look so tired, you poor thing.” Stevie looks away, looks at the kids, looks anywhere but.

 

“Nope,” Xabi says, shuffling away, “uh, this is my normal look.”

 

She clucks at him, and Xabi’s pretty thankful when Stevie instructs her to deal with the yellow group and get them onto the bus. Then he turns back to Xabi, “You’ve got the red group for now, so you’re on bus two,”

 

“Okay,” he yawns, swinging his duffle bag off his shoulder to hold up a clipboard, “so I’ll just chuck this under the bus?”

 

Stevie shrugs. “Well, in case of emergencies we need a car, so get to drive up. I could have it in the back seat of mine?”

 

“Oh, yeah, that would be— thanks.” Xabi says passing it over. Stevie’s fingers gently curling around his own as it transfers hands. They say nothing, don’t even look at each other.

 

“I, anyway uh, I’ll see you up there. Enjoy the trip.” Stevie says walking off. Enjoy the trip,  _yeah_ , Xabi thinks. Four hours on a bus with preteens  _is_  my ideal Wednesday morning.

 

* * *

 

 

Once they’ve arrived and Xabi and the teachers get to unloading all the gear from below the busses. Jesus, some of these kids must be packing for months. In saying that, some of these bags definitely rattle suspiciously and yeah, he remembers what it was like to smuggle sweets into camp, so there’s that.

 

Maybe I should be appreciative, Xabi thinks, as Jenny waves and yells that she’s saved him a seat at the lunch table. But as soon as she rubs his shoulders, and asks if he’d like a back massage for being “so very manly” with the unloading of the bags, he decides that no, appreciative is not the word. He eats his hotdog in relative silence.

 

In the corner of the room Jon is glaring furiously.

 

The kids get dragged off to their first activity, with the teachers and chaperones granted exemption from this one to get things settled for the night.

 

Mrs. O’Neill gets to allocating them rooms, and Xabi has never quite been so thankful that this lady did not want him sleeping with Hayley’s mum. “Mr. Alonso,” she says, “Mr. Gerrard has already moved your things into his room, though I do warn you, it is right in the middle of all the boys rooms, so I don’t know how much sleep you’ll be getting.”

  
Xabi decides that he’s done very well not to blush at any point throughout that briefing. “Thanks ma’am, I’ll uh, head down there.”

 

He knocks on the door. “Hello?”

 

Stevie glances up from where he has a first aid laid out on his bed. “Ah, hey.” He’s repacking it.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“A double check,” Stevie says, as though it is obvious, “kids are clumsy. Last camp we had three broken bones, four nosebleeds, and,” he holds up a box of tissues, “don’t get me started on those tears.”

 

Xabi finds himself thinking that he is really glad there are teachers like Mr. Gerrard around his son.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr. Gerrard?” Jon comes up to Stevie with Luca trailing just behind him. They both look adorable, all kitted out in the helmets and harnesses needed for high-ropes, far less traumatising than usual.

 

Stevie squats down. “What’s up Jon? Looking forward to the campfire tonight?”

 

He glances over his shoulder to where his dad is getting fitted with his own safety gear. “Hayley’s mum is being weird around my dad.” He says, and Stevie peers over the boy to where Jenny is indeed tightening the straps on Xabi’s harness,  _jesus_ , he thinks, before Jon continues: “Can you make her stop?”

 

Stevie chuckles, oh Jon. And he’s not going to lie, he sounds pathetically nervous when he asks: “Not looking for a new-step mum then?”

 

Jon gives him the most  **withering**  look.

 

 _Frick,_  Stevie thinks. “Okay, I think it’s your guys’ turn now, you ready Luca?”

 

Luca grins, “C’mon Jonxtu!”

 

Jon narrows his eyes at Stevie. “I don’t like her  _at all.”_  He’s dragged away by Luca.

 

Stevie has run events with Hayley’s mum before and she is… well... very capable, and very… handsy, which, at least ended when he finally said:  _“Mrs. Carpenter, I’m uh, actually gay.”_

_“You are? Stevie, darling, you should have said something I am so sorry I have been—” all over me, Stevie thinks. “I had no idea,” she says._

 

But Stevie’s not particularly impressed that Xabi is just letting it happen, just letting Hayley’s mum have her hands all over— okay, forget it. Stevie thinks. Jon hates her, so it’s not an issue. He decides that his time is better spent split between taking photos of the kids for the school magazine and watching as Xabi’s t-shirt rides up over his hip bone.

 

* * *

 

 

All the kids are showering after a trip to the lake, and the adults are sitting around the table planning the transition from dinner to the campfire but Stevie’s just kind of—well, Xabi is wearing  _that_  t-shirt again and he feels an awful level of attachment to it and rather wishes he hadn’t returned it and that Xabi would have been forced to keep wearing that one that shows off his chest. You know, because obviously Xabi didn’t bring any other shirts with him.

 

“What do you think, Stevie?”

 

Oh no. “Uh,”

 

“About the activities?”

 

“They sound good.”

 

“You’re happy to run them?”

 

“Yeh, that’s alright.”

 

“Even hot chocolate duty?”

 

Stevie hums, “I hear Jon’s dad is pretty good at warming up milk.” Then glances at Xabi sitting beside him, before mumbling: “and more importantly, he looks cute while doing it,” only loud enough for them to hear.

 

Xabi wants to stab him with a spoon _. My pyjamas_ , he thinks.  _Do not tell anyone._

 

Mrs. O’Neill looks at Xabi, “and you’re happy to help Mr. Gerrard out tonight?”

 

After a nice solid kick at Stevie’s ankle, Xabi nods. “Yes, I can do that.”

 

“Alright, well you two can have the next hour off, but Stevie, you still have to do the confiscation rounds.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Mmmmphh!”

  
Xabi looks up from the book he’s thumbing through.

 

The “Mmmphh!” is followed by a thud on the door this time, so Xabi gets up, opens the door. He’s met by Stevie, arms filled with at least a dozen cans of silly string and—is that whipped cream?, five rolls of toilet paper, and in his mouth, a thick permanent marker. He stumbles into the room and drops everything down on his bed. “They are a nightmare. I swear this isn’t half of it.”

Xabi raises his eyebrows. “Jesus, they’re certainly more prepared than I ever was.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Stevie says, smirking. The very little he remembers of that Thursday night includes an absolutely mortified Xabi realising that all of his condoms had expired years ago.

 

“Is Jon part of—”

 

“Dude, your son is the _ringleader_.” Stevie says, chucking Xabi a can of orange silly string. “This was one of three under his bed.”

 

Xabi catches it, and makes a mental note to send an angry text to “cool” uncle Pepe who is obviously the supplier of them. “Three seems like an awful lot—”

 

“Ah yes, well I can’t imagine Luca Kaka has managed to get his hands on any. That’s your kid, always looking out for others in the most terrifying way possible.” Stevie shrugs, shaking up a can of blue silly string.

 

“Huh,” Xabi says.

 

“So,” Stevie says, “I’ve decided, that  _you_  should be  _punished._ ”

 

“What—” he’s met with a solid stream of synthetic resin hitting his face and the sounds of Stevie laughing gleefully.

 

“Whoops.” The silly string is all over his hair before Xabi even realises that Stevie gave him his own can.

 

He pulls the lid off the orange, and tackles Stevie onto the ground. “You son-of-a-bitch,” and Stevie’s top is graced with silly string all over it too, and now they’re wrestling on the ground.

 

“Arrghhh,” Stevie yells, pushing Xabi away from him, and standing up “PUNISHED I TELL YOU,”. Even as he is getting this shit everywhere, he can’t imagine ever thinking that this would be beneath him, especially not as Xabi cops some right in the mouth.

 

He gasps around it. “How  _dare_  you—” and all of a sudden Xabi has two cans and they are being sprayed simultaneously at Stevie’s face, because this is not unbecoming in the  _slightest._

 

Oh yeah, Stevie thinks, Game On. He drops his own can, and pins Xabi’s wrists beside his head on the carpet. “Give me those,” he growls, straddling Xabi’s waist.

 

“Over my dead body,” Xabi says, struggling to pull his hands away from Stevie, but it’s too late and Stevie’s already tugged one can from his grasp and chucked it to the side. He goes to work on the other wrist and as the vein in his neck pulses, Xabi can’t help but think how much he still wants to bite Jon’s teacher’s throat even if it is covered in liquid plastic.

 

Stevie has the other one in his hand now, and with, what realistically is a pretty impressive manoeuvre (if this wasn’t a battle, Xabi thinks pitifully), binds both of Xabi’s wrists with the fingers of his left hand, leaving his right one free to--- noooooo. "Stevie," Xabi whines, and he's throbbing under those hips.

 

Stevie shakes the can, stares down at Xabi, well aware that he looks like an absolute goof, well aware that it will be fucking worth it just to—

 

He positions the nozzle to face down under the neckline of Xabi’s shirt, and he presses the button down and Xabi just writhes beneath him as the can empties onto his bare chest. Stevie grins down at him,  _this is fricken’ hot_  he decides, imagining the man under him trying to scrub it all off in the shower. But when Xabi leans up and kisses him everything goes completely downhill.

 

Stevie’s hand loses its’ grip on Xabi’s wrists as he goes to cup his face, still refusing to stop spraying. He moans into Xabi’s mouth and doesn’t even feel guilty for it tasting synthetic because it is so very warm as he licks his way into it.

 

But before Xabi manages to successfully complete mission: ‘Overthrow Stevie’, there’s a knock at the door, and they only just manage to scramble off each other when Mrs. O’Neill walks in, and stares at them, absolutely horrified.

 

“Steven,” she says,  _“what the hell are you doing.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be going somewhere slightly different to the expectation, let me know  
> what you think. (But I mainly want to know your thoughts on the silly spray fight.)
> 
> Props to savetheclocktower who I practically wrote this at all day. She came up with  
> Jon's /most withering look/, too.
> 
> So yes to #collaboration!


	8. “I do exercise,”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's vomiting and some midnight football watching.

Mrs. O’Neill has just physically removed Jenny’s hand from Xabi’s lower back, and led her away. He can vaguely hear mutterings of: “Mr. Alonso is very interested in someone on this camp.... no... it’s not you and it’s not me, so if we just—” as they continue to walk.

 

He can also see Mr. Gerrard coming towards him, and he flushes red all over, heaves again. Mrs. O’Neill had only just finished reading him the riot act an hour ago, and if he’s honest, Xabi’s just glad they didn’t get hauled out in front of the principal covered head to toe in… gunk. Nevertheless, he’s pretty sure his punishment is worse than the letter Jon has to write because he has been 'coerced' into doing the afternoon hike. Coerced into a hike that has lead to…

 

Well, at least blushing is better than the throwing up on the side of the gravel path that he has been partaking in for the past few minutes. He wants to say that he  _does_  exercise, okay? It’s just, often at the gym doing chin-ups… or sometimes in the swimming pool. He doesn’t exactly participate in casual mountain hikes on a regular basis, or as the record may perhaps read: never.

 

“You right?” Mr. Gerrard claps him on the shoulder and Xabi is very aware that he has walked back from leading the pack down to him (crouched on the ground).

 

“I _do_ exercise,” Xabi manages.

 

“Oh yeah,” Stevie says,  _“I have noticed.”_  Xabi retches again at this, so Stevie pats him on the back, asks: “why did you drink two litres of water?” I mean, you certainly looked attractive and all pouring half the bottle on your head and letting your adam’s apple bump as you gulped down the rest, Stevie decides. But you only have yourself to blame.

 

Wiping at his mouth, Xabi replies, “You know, this isn’t exactly the most comforting conversation.”

 

Stevie looks up at the pack and signals for them to keep walking- but what with Luca trying to attract wild animals, Harriet lining her friends up to march two steps forward and one step back, and Reina child number one being drafted into attempt 5 of 'fill up the water-balloon from a bottle' (not going to happen, Stevie thinks)- it’s not as though they’re going anywhere fast. “Sorry, I’m only good with ten year olds.” He says, sitting down beside Xabi. “You nauseous? Jon mentioned…”

 

Xabi looks up from the dirt, narrows his eyes, “He _didn’t_.”

 

“He was very informative. ‘Mr. Gerrard, dad’s trying to be tough but he’s  _totally_  freaking out,’ and to be fair to Jon, it was a little bit obvious. Because… apparently you get dizzy around heights?, which, you know, for the record you are legally required to disclose before we do things like this.”

 

He receives a glare for that, “I’m not going to freaking sue you.”

 

“Huh. Well, Jon didn’t want to embarrass you, so I’m here on behalf of him.” Stevie offers him his bottle of water. “Take a sip, yeah?”

 

Weakly, Xabi says, “I don't want to chuck it up,"

 

"Nah you won't, I've got glucose in this one. So it'll make you feel a bit better." Holding onto his shoulder, Stevie presses the lip of it to Xabi's mouth, "Here, c'mon."

 

Xabi rests one hand on the bottom of the bottle as it is tilted up, he sips at it gingerly. Then throws up on Stevie's shoes.

 

"Okay, well I was probably _partially_  to blame for that." Stevie says, grinning and Xabi can't help but wonder if school teachers are just used to being vomited on. He's very impressed nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they’ve all done three rounds of “lights out”, “do you guys have chocolate in there?”, “oh my god, which reina child brought a speaker”, it’s about 10:30pm and Xabi is torn between demanding the first shower to get rid of the vomit smell and silly spray remains from his chest or just curling up to sleep.

  
Stevie opens the door for him and with the realisation that he smells overwhelmingly of rotten egg, Xabi decides it's probably in both of their best interests if he's the one to shower first.

 

When he returns, Stevie scribbling notes down onto a page attached to a clipboard and it looks an awful lot like 'team-building conversations'. Half a dozen silly spray cans still sit on the floor between their beds and Xabi wonders how many cans his own kid managed to smuggle into camp, because Stevie remains convinced that the haul he got was a decoy.

 

“God, they’re a bunch of troublemakers this year,” Stevie says as he gets up, shrugs his shirt off, and fumbles through a backpack for towel. “My turn then. Hold the fort will you?” He glances around to see Xabi holding a pair of trackies in one hand and those pj bottoms in the other. He looks absolutely distraught. “Oh for Christs sake, they look good on you. Wear them.”

 

As he walks to the shower block he can still hear the sound of crinkling sweet wrappers and low levels of gossip, which at least for now, are not punishable.

 

Fresh and showered, Stevie slowly makes his way into the room, where he hears Xabi talking quietly. The door is open but he still feels as though he’s somehow intruding. Xabi looks up at him as he enters and quickly says: “Sí, nina. Te extraño mucho.” into a phone that he drops on the bed.

 

“Hey,” Stevie shakes his hair like a dog, the water drops flying across the room.

 

Xabi looks back at him, smiles weakly. “I’m wearing my dorky pyjamas,”

 

Stevie grins, looks him up and down, “Yes,” he says, “but I won’t tell anyone.”  _I’ll just jerk off at home to the very thought of you wearing them in my bed,_ he thinks. 

 

* * *

 

 

He has his headphones on and the screen brightness is at its lowest possible setting, and yet every time the body in the bed two feet over shifts, Stevie feels a little guilty. His watch reads 3:15, which isn’t usual for his football watching schedule, but he can’t really remember the last time he shared a room with someone, so he’s doing his best to keep his enthusiasm under wraps.

 

Twenty five minutes in, his goalkeeper saves a penalty. Stevie’s arm hits the lampshade. It falls. Xabi sits up, bed-head in full, adorable, force. “Where am... What are you— what time is it?”

 

Stevie looks at him guiltily. “Uh, three… ish.”

 

“And what are you..?” Xabi zeroes in on the tablet Stevie has perched on his lap.

 

“Uh, football…”

 

Xabi runs a hand through his hair. “Can I watch?”

 

“Yeah, uh, it’s Liverpool.”

 

Xabi shrugs. “I’m still… I’d still like to.”

 

He lasts an impressive 12 minutes from the moment Stevie nodded and shuffled over to make room. Headphones unplugged, the commentary a little tinny and with their shoulders pressed up together, Xabi is trying his very best to be interested. He likes football, he really does, but its been a year since he’s watched a match that isn’t Jon’s and it is also he middle of the night. And he wants to reinforce that he’s usually in bed by ten and up at five, so, he’d like to make sure that the judge takes that into account.

 

All things considered, he’d be pretty proud of lasting 12 minutes, if his falling asleep hadn’t proceeded to happen on his son’s teacher’s chest.

 

Stevie stares down at the warm, fluffy mass on his chest and the guy is already snoring, and yeah, Stevie kind of wants to run his fingers through Jon’s dad’s hair, maybe wants to kiss his forehead but jesus, they’re not dating and they’re not even fucking so— he just goes back to watching his match with his heart weighed down.

 

At some point during the second half of what is currently a goalless  _(typical)_  match, Stevie shifts slightly, moving his body out of the way for Xabi to hit the pillow and sheets at the same time, before going to sit on the other bed.

 

It’s for the best, really. He only wants to kiss Xabi if Xabi wants to kiss him, and the bloke looks adorable sleeping, so it’s not as though he’s going to wake him up. Stevie tucks his knees under him and settles back down into the pillow which he is hoping is going to smell like Jon’s dad’s shampoo.

 

 


	9. "Did you just make a pun during sex?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pablo stares at them. (oh my god, he thinks. how embarrassing. time to come inside  
> and give bellyrubs. put clothes on first)
> 
> [PSA: you might have already read this because I fricked up the chapters.]

Jon falls asleep in the back seat of Stevie’s car while he’s driving them home.

 

Xabi sighs, “If he just slept like that all the time I’m sure things would be easier for both of us, no?”

 

Stevie stops at a red light and glances behind them, “Ringleaders who command armies needs naps too.”

 

“Yes, but what about a good night of sleep?”

 

Shrugging, Stevie says: “Can’t plan revolutions during daylight.”

 

When they pull up outside the Alonso home, Jon is still fast asleep. Xabi slings both bags over his shoulder and picks Jon up gently. “Thanks for the lift.”

 

Jon is tucked into bed within about a minute, and then Xabi shucks his shirt, squats down to plug in his phone because, god, he is tired and  _this_  bed is actually habitable. His phone buzzes.

 

[you forgot something]

 

Xabi glances at his bed, checks on Jon, jogs downstairs to where Stevie’s leaning up against the car. He frowns, “what did I—”

 

Stevie looks at him with a focused stare, eyes bright and so fucking blue, so filled with-- “All you gave me was a quick kiss and a fumble on the floor.” Xabi has to look away, his heart breaking already, but then the determination of Stevie’s voice fades and the guy sounds strangled as he says: “I mean we don’t have to—”

 

Xabi narrows his eyes, crowds Stevie against the car, and god, even now a small part him wants to tell Stevie that it’s not this simple, that maybe he’d like a glass of wine, a chance to talk, only that, it is this simple, at least, for the rest of the week. And his dick is already stirring, he can’t just--- leave, can he?

 

So he doesn’t think, just presses him further back, kisses him. They’re touching everywhere. He realises, vaguely, when they’re rutting up against each other that: Stevie stole his shirt and his heart. Thinks, shit. “Open—the door,” he says. “G-get in the car.”

 

They collapse into the backseat of the car, and when Stevie asks Xabi to take his pants off, he already sounds a little wrecked.

 

* * *

 

 

Xabi arches up against him, hisses, and suddenly there's wetness between them. Stevie stares at him, stops mindlessly rutting against the expanse of soft fur, stops sucking on Xabi's neck. "Did you just—” because they haven't even started using their hands or mouths or--- Stevie has just been grinding up against Xabi's belly while they make out.

 

He's met with the image of Xabi biting down on his own lip, teeth vicious against the soft wet skin. "I—” Xabi starts, and he's blushing, but not the rosy cheeks that Stevie wants to lick off his face, oh god  _no,_  Stevie thinks. He's embarrassed.   _No, that isn't what I--_

 

"Wait, no-- I wasn't..." He cups Xabi's jaw, and tensing his fingers, takes a different approach. "How long's it been?"

 

Xabi's eyes widens, "what" he chokes out, cheeks flushed even in this light and determinedly refusing to look at Stevie. Jesus if the action itself wasn't endearing enough, the aftermath makes him want to fuck Xabi slowly in a warm bed with all the time in the world and let him come as many times as he needs to.

 

So Stevie gets closer, rubs one palm against Xabi's shaft, whispers: "how long has it been? before me, when was the last?" He allows his own hips to move again, his dick slowly sliding paths up and down Xabi's stomach, up and down against the hair and more recently the warm flood of come. Xabi finally meets his eyes,  he wants to explain that—it has been so long and he thought that it was obvious and Stevie just says: "So stop freaking out and let me—” 

 

He slips down Xabi’s body, settling much lower, between his legs. “What are you—” Xabi can’t even finish his thought because Stevie licks a stripe down his stomach, cleaning up the mess. “Jesus, I—” Stevie is licking up the ‘v’ of his hips, and oh fuck, “Are you into this or something?”

 

“Into  _you_ ,” Stevie says, punctuating his words with teeth against Xabi’s skin, sucking down low. “However you come.” Xabi pulls on Stevie’s hair, forcing him to look up, but Stevie grins, crawling back up his body.

 

With a burst of laughter, Xabi says: “Oh my god,” and Stevie chuckles against his face. “Did you just make a pun during sex?”

 

“Yeah, impressed, aren’t you?” And they’re now just cackling into each other’s mouths, until Stevie pulls away, “So are you going to let me finish, or what?” he mumbles, sucking down on the hollow of Xabi’s neck.

 

Xabi threads both hands in Stevie's hair, decides that this is fucking obscene and that he wants it to continue forever. Groaning, he throws his head back to give Stevie more access to his neck, his head clashing with the side door. "Owww, shit,"

 

Stevie stops rocking his hips, he's close, but the wellbeing of this man whose stomach he wants to come on is probably more important. "You okay?" He says, mouth hot against Xabi's throat.

 

"Mmh, the windows, Stevie they are—” His eyes are hazy post orgasm, so Stevie can't be blamed for questioning his intent.

 

"Steamed up, yeh." Xabi leans forward and their dicks slide together and Stevie closes his eyes. "What are you— ahhhh fuck,” He bites into the man’s collarbone as they move against each other.

 

"I need to, is there is a—” Xabi’s still shifting further forward, one arm stretched out, reaching for the driver's side controls, "Got to, crack the windows,"

 

Stevie, on the brink, could care less about the windows, he manages hoarsely: “Ju-just wait,” so Xabi slides his free arm between them, wraps his strong fingers around the base of his cock, squeezes hard which makes Stevie shout, but it stops him from coming.

 

“L-let go--- Xabi, oh god, let go—I can’t—” and when Xabi does so with a smirk, Stevie can’t see anything, he’s gone. Lost in the sparks dancing behind his eyelids and it’s all awfully overwhelming. Xabi kisses him once, and reaches again for the car controls.

  
He budges once more, falling with a sigh against Stevie as he finally hits the button that lets the windows slide down an inch, his elbow however, collides with the horn.

 

It blares and they freeze.

  
And it's all fine, you know, relatively speaking. Until the car alarm starts squealing horrifically. Once, then twice, then,  _oh._  No, it's definitely not stopping. It roars with a ferocity that is rarely experienced in the still of sundown. Stevie tries to climb into the driver’s seat but they are both vaguely aware that they’ll need to get out.

 

So they face an all guns blazing, life-destroying air horn cry of: I need to wake up everyone in this neighbourhood. Everyone come out because Mr. Gerrard and Jon's dad are getting off on each other in this car! That's right, this car! They’re getting it all over the seats, and it is disgusting!

 

By the time they stumble out of the car, the dusk that once graced their fumbles has fled- its beauty halted, haunted by the siren demanding their decency.

 

They stand in the dark of street, clad in boxers, as Stevie locks and unlocks, locks and unlocks the car, swearing profusely.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAR ALARMS ARE AWESOME, AREN'T THEY.


	10. “Dad’s crying on the bathroom floor.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, there are maybe more Alonso children than previously thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not one for preemptive apologies, okay?

Stevie lasts all of three days before he’s at Xabi’s door again. They need to… talk. He wants to, do dinner, do small talk, walk the dog, just, get to know each other and… tell him that he’s willing to give it a shot if Xabi is.

 

By the time he finally knocks on their door, there is a crash inside the house and he’s met by the sight of Xabi cradling a tiny little baby in the nook of his arm, a toddler hanging off his leg, her hands covered in paint. Xabi hasn’t even checked to see who was at the door yet because he’s craning his neck around in an attempt to—“JON DON’T THROW THAT!” and then, with wide eyes, he sees him “Stevie,” he says, voice cracking.

 

There is a child hanging off him.

 

He is cradling a tiny baby.

 

A baby tinier than a size three football. Stevie stares at the baby, stares at the child. The little girl grins up at him, looks a little like Jon, rubs her painted hands all over Xabi’s shirt. And Stevie just can’t. Can’t do this. Can’t breathe. He turns, bolts, hears, vaguely, Xabi calling his name. Can’t.

 

He ends up on the local park bench unable to control his breathing. Doesn’t remember the last time he had a panic attack, can’t calm down, can’t---. Wants to punch himself in the face and wonders if he missed a sign that Xabi had a wife or husband, that Jon had a second parent. That, Jon had siblings? He doesn’t remember hearing Jon mention siblings, but the kid is mostly too busy with the intricacies of espionage to talk about much about things at home.

 

The second time he knocks on the door, Xabi is covered in red paint and shouting: “You can’t paint Pablo!” and Stevie can hear Jon cackling as green paint flies behind Xabi, hitting the wall. The little girl streaks past, bare except for being, well, covered in paint. The little baby, is still sound asleep in her dad’s arms, even if dad himself has likely been used as a human paint shield to protect her. He looks at Stevie, “I can explain,” he says hoarsely, and it maybe sounds as though Xabi has already been crying.

 

Stevie just stares back at him, hopes that his breathing isn’t going to just give up on him.

 

“I’ve just got to— those two need a bath, and I was just about to put Emma down to sleep but she’s not interested, I’ve ordered pizza, y-you can… uh, if you want to stay, there’s beers in the fridge and—” Pablo trots past, soaked in blue paint. Xabi runs a hand through his hair and the paint spreads in it. “Look, I’ve got to deal with—”

 

“Go.” Stevie says, following the realisation that chaos possibly reflects the fact that Xabi is (at least for now) not hiding a husband or wife back there. Xabi looks at him with sad eyes, nods, walks away. “Wait, if she doesn’t want to nap…” Stevie raises his voice as an afterthought,  “I’ll… I could… hold her."

 

“She… might vomit,”

 

“You’ve already vomited on me, baby sick can’t be much worse, right?” Xabi gently passes her over, terrified. But when Stevie coos at her though, she gurgles, reaching for his nose. “I’ll yell if we need something.” He says.

 

Xabi wants to die. Rather wants to just take her back because he can’t get used to  _this._

 

Stevie takes the little baby to go sit on the couch, rests her on his chest, and glances around the house. Admittedly, he was only here once that he actually has any recollection of, and yeah, maybe he was doing the walk of shame on the way to class, but god, was he fucking blind? The lounge room can be evenly divided into thirds of: minimalist furniture, paint, and children’s toys that a ten year old boy wouldn’t be interested in.

 

He can also see Xabi hauling two kids over his shoulders and up the stairs. Man, what the hell did he think he was getting into?

 

After about 15 minutes a fully clothed toddler sits plops down on the couch beside him. Stevie realises quite suddenly that she’s not a toddler and is perhaps four or five, or maybe five year olds are still toddlers? He really has no idea. Either way, she has brought a big bottle of apple juice with her. She sets it down on the coffee table and looks at him expectantly.

 

Stevie manages, positioning the baby softly on his lap, to pour her a cup of juice.

 

She smiles up at him, and then, as if it is some kind of thanks:  “Dad’s crying on the bathroom floor.” She says plainly.

 

Yes, Stevie thinks. Me too.

 

* * *

 

Stevie decides that he’ll start. “So I don’t know whether I’m an idiot  _or_ ," He watches Xabi pinch at the bridge of  his nose. “Did you try to…” and now Stevie can't even look at him and he's not really sure if he wants the answer because he can't do this anyway. "Did you play me?"

 

"No. My parents had the girls. I wasn't... sleeping... so they took them so I could have a few weeks off. Their mum isn't here anymore."

 

"Were you ever going to mention— oh." It hits him square in the chest. "Oh. I was a one night stand." Stevie can't remember the last time he... God, he's only had a few boyfriends but he can't have been older than 22 the last time he wanted a one night stand.

 

Xabi swigs at his beer. "I just wanted to get drunk and make out with someone."

 

Stevie's laugh bites at him, far harsher a sound than Xabi has previously heard, than any other sound he's drawn from his mouth. "Don't know how much you remember but we went a fair bit further than first base,  _mate."_

 

" _Stevie_ ," Xabi says helplessly. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

 

"Yeah," Stevie cracks his knuckles, drums his fingers against his knees.  _"Well."_

 

"I didn't know you were..." Xabi rubs at his face, wonders how obvious it is that he's been crying. Takes a different tact. "As soon as I'd said no to second drinks, I convinced myself that, yeah, I could do casual for two weeks. Get you in a nice warm bed somewhere," he pauses, fingers curling around his longneck. "Lick you out for an hour, let you fuck me slowly, give you foot rubs, eat shitty takeaway."

 

Stevie wants to curl up. "You mean make me fall in love with you for two weeks and then just leave?" He's hoarse now. Possibly on the verge of tears, completely aware that he's no less of a man if he just openly sobs, nevertheless determined to hold out.

 

"But when you wouldn't let me kiss you in the bathroom, I knew... I knew you weren't in it for casual."

 

"I didn't want Jon to get hurt," Stevie manages, and god, he has never spoken truer words.

 

"That side of you made more attractive to me."

 

Stevie glowers at him.  _"It's not just a side of me."_  Jaw clenching with his words, he continues. "Those kids are my life. They're... I put them first, okay? I get that he's your son and all.  I get that they all have parents and grandparents, but if they ever need it, I'm there. Whenever they need it. Whatever they need help with.  I don't give them any of that bullshit. I'll put them first every fucking time. Your son included."

 

A little destroyed, Xabi stares at him. Stevie swallows then skols his beer. "We can't... do this." Xabi says, unsurely gesturing between them.

 

"No." Stevie says, tears in his eyes, refusing to look up. "I can't— you can't." Xabi nods at him, so Stevie stands up, pushes away from the table. Clears his throat. "Alright."

 

Xabi is staring rather blankly at an orange stegosaurus, maybe wants to stab himself with it. Stevie leans across to kiss his cheek and they're both so fucking entirely aware that it is goodbye that it slices and stings: citrus, vinegar, salt on cracked lips, on bloody tongues.

 

"I could have loved you," Stevie says.

 

"Yes," Xabi says, "but not anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out angst is fun to write? (ha!)
> 
> yoooooooo, you gotta comment or xabi will just stab himself with that orange  
> stegosaurus.


	11. “Jill saw you holding hands with a boy."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months pass. Stevie ends up with a boyfriend and Jon ends up in hospital.  
> Pablo probably misses out on dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO WE'RE PUBLISHING THIS BEFORE THE FA CUP FOR OBVIOUS REASONS
> 
> This should probably be a bunch of chapters but I'm struggling, so.
> 
> I had a plan for post chapter 10 (but when it came to writing it the way I wanted  
> didn't work, so major props to @ourseparatedcities for pretty much all of the plot  
> ideas in this chapter).

It’s only when they pull into the street that Jon changes the topic from football. “Mr. Gerrard you  _can’t!_ ”

 

Stevie drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Jon, your dad has to be told.”

 

Jon glares at him. “He won’t care.”

 

“We both know that’s not true, kiddo.” Stevie says, because maybe Jon wasn’t paying attention to his dad’s face when he got called to the Principal’s office last time.

 

The boy whines. “He just mopes about now.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“He doesn’t care about anything.”

 

Stevie pulls up outside their house. “Jon, your dad loves you, mate. That’s obvious.”

 

“ _Sir,_  he’s going to be mad.”

 

“Well, you  _did_ punch Mike.”

 

Jon shrugs. “I said sorry this time.” Stevie gives him a look. “Mr. Gerrard I didn’t mean to make him cry… I said sorry!”

 

* * *

 

 

When Xabi opens the door, he’s on the phone. “Yes and I told you if we don’t shift the loans to— I’m going to have to call you back,” He says, pocketing it before turning on Jon. “And  _where_  have you been, mister?”

 

Jon glances up at his teacher, then to the porch floor. “Detention.”

 

Xabi sighs, rubs his beard. “What for?”

 

Jon looks at Mr. Gerrard more determinedly and finally Stevie speaks. “He punched Mike Reynolds in the face.”

 

“What.” Xabi raises his voice only for Jon to push past him and inside the house. “Why wasn’t I called?”

 

Stevie puts Jon’s bag down on the mat, and takes a few steps back just in case the other male Alonso is going to lash out. “The school had your mother come instead, Jon didn’t… uh, want you there.”

 

Xabi face contorts, he looks furious. Tired, but fucking furious. “He is TEN, how is  _he_  entitled to make that decision?” He seethes.

 

Mr. Gerrard can only shrug, “He has the right to choose between his emergency contacts. That is part of our charter of rights.”

 

“And he doesn’t lose that privilege when he punches another kid in the face?”

 

“Emergency contact rights only come into play when incidents like this occur. He said he didn’t want you there, he’s allowed to make that decision. I was told that your mum had everything explained and she signed the necessary forms, so you’ll be sent a letter.”

 

Xabi makes a face, “what you’re not going to hand deliver it like  _last time_?” he snarls.

 

Stevie swallows. “I actually wanted to see you, last time.” He says softly and it hits Xabi like a fucking tonne of bricks. He wasn’t even aware that Stevie even wanted to see him when he brought the letter over last time, wasn’t even aware that Stevie even wanted to— wanted to do anything apart than ask for an apology for what happened in the bathroom.

 

“The school should have called  _me_ , he is  _my_  son.”

 

“We didn’t do that because he said you’ve been mean to him.” Stevie is speaking quietly now and Xabi feels like a child.

 

 _“What,”_  Xabi whispers, “I—”

 

“Mike wasn’t bullying Luca this time. The kid did nothing wrong. Your son wasn’t defending anyone, he was upset because apparently you haven’t been spending time with him. Which, is none of my business but Jon’s been coming to class upset for a few weeks now.” Xabi stays silent, perhaps wants to shut the door on Mr. Gerrard’s face, or maybe drown himself in the bubblebath he’s in the middle of preparing. Hmm, Xabi thinks, maybe it’s overflowing already. “Look, I’m not having a go or anything, but he said you’re moping,” (which, Stevie thinks, I would maybe feel guilty for if it hadn’t been three months since we last spoke) “and it’s not fun for him or Pablo.”

 

“I am  _not_ moping.”

 

Jon, from three rooms away yells: “ _LIAR!”_  And Xabi wants to sit on the floor, cry a bit.

 

Stevie swallows. “I’ve got to go, so you’ll get a letter,”

 

Xabi nods numbly, feels entirely pathetic and watches as Stevie leaves before he can apologise on behalf of his son, on behalf of himself.

 

* * *

 

 

If pressed on the matter, Stevie wouldn’t lie; the first time Jon asked him, he was in. The year is drawing to a close and he only has a few more events he can attend with this class. But when the boy was ready to beg and pout and stop throwing paper planes, he figured that he might as well string it out a little longer, and maybe the hairline comments would cease?

 

“Sir, pleaseeee! It’s the final!”

 

Stevie’s on lunchtime playground duty on day four of Jon’s mission, and the boy has actually sat out of the first half of the football in an attempt to convince him. “I don’t know Jon, I’ve got a lot of marking this weekend.”

 

Jon whines, “But Mr. Gerrard you taught me all the moves!”

 

“Oh yeah?” Mr. Gerrard says, passing him a ball. “You gonna show me then?”

 

The boy eyes him suspiciously. “If I show you will you come to the game?”

 

Stevie chuckles. “I don’t know, how good are you?” Jon juggles the ball a few times, and with a duck he lets it land on the flat of his back. He lets it slide down and then taps it over again with his heel and looks up at his teacher. Stevie ducks his head, smiles, he did indeed teach Jon that one. “Impressive.”

 

“W-will you come, sir?

 

“Are you kidding?” The boy looks at him nervously and Stevie has  _never_  seen that look on him. Not in the principal’s office, or detention, or during tests or even the time that he almost froze his tongue off during the science experiment. “Jon? Of course I’ll come.”

 

“R-really?”

 

“Yeah, kid. I’ll be there.”

 

Stevie would like to see the boy try to smile wider than what he is now. “Thanks sir!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Mrs. Carpenter, no I—” Stevie vaguely wishes that Hayley’s mum was still interested in getting handsy Jon’s dad. Vaguely wishes he had disguised himself better, or at all, or that he had agreed to stand with the Reina clan behind the goal. Instead Penny is dragging him towards Jon’s dad. “I was really fine where I was,” he tries.

 

“Nonsense,” she tugs harder at his arm. “Mrs. O’Neill said that Jon’s dad was  _interested_  in you,”

 

“Not anymore,” Stevie mutters.

 

She ignores him, “and he looks awfully sad and he hasn’t volunteered for any of the cake stands recently or helped with the canteen finances!” she stares at Stevie mournfully.

 

He’s pretty sure that the guy never volunteered for any of those school events anyway, which, yes, it was possible that Stevie was a little pissed off by before, the whole oh, you-have-two-kids-that-you’ve-been-trying-to-hide, thing happened. All he manages is: “uh.”

 

“So you should sit with him,” she says gleefully, tugging him up the steps, “besides, he looks pretty cute, right Mr. Gerrard?”

 

Stevie grits his teeth, “Mrs. Carpenter I really don’t think—” that he’s going to want me anywhere near him after what happened last time. That  _I_  want to be anywhere near him.

 

“Sweetheart he barely goes out, he is all alone, we  _need_  to sit with him.” Barely goes out cause he’s apparently trying to hide two adorable daughters, Stevie thinks bitterly. Despite Mr. Gerrard grovelling behind her, Penny finally reaches Jon’s dad. “Xabi? We thought we’d come join you!”

 

Jon’s dad looks up from the newspaper he’s thumbing through, “uh,” he says as she pushes Stevie down next to him and sits beside them both.

 

Stevie is just staring at his feet so Penny reaches leans across him. “Thought you looked like you could do with some company, no?”

 

“Oh, uh, right.” Xabi folds his paper, and smiles at her politely.

 

“Would you boys like some coffee?” She asks, pulling out a thermos. “Hayley always likes warm drinks after the game, so now I bring a batch for the parents.” They both stay silent until she elbows Stevie. “Oi, men and their manners, I swear.”

 

Stevie sighs, “I’d love some coffee Mrs. Carpenter.”

 

“And you know how I feel about you calling me that. What am I, seventy?” She pinches at his cheek. “Anyway, the kids will be really happy to see you at the match, love.”

 

Stevie smiles, “hope so, I’ve got lots of maths homework I should be marking,”

 

“But it’s a Saturday!” She blurts out. “You’ve got to relax sometime.”

 

“Yeah, but uh, the boyfriend won’t let me do marking in bed,” he says quietly to her, “So I’ve got to get it all done by eight.”

 

“Boyfriend?” She frowns, glancing at Xabi. “But I thought— oh, uh never mind.”

 

Xabi decides that he wants to throw up into his cup of coffee and plead that he had a sudden and extreme bout with lactose intolerance.

 

Stevie bites his lip, “I might go say hi to the kids before kickoff,” he excuses himself and jogs down to the pitch.

 

Hayley’s mum shuffles up to Xabi. “I thought…?”

 

“Oh,” says Xabi, “no.”

 

“But didn’t you… Mrs. O’Neill said that...” Xabi looks as though he is experiencing heartburn, so Jenny rubs his shoulder. “Alright how about we talk about the P and C’s financial contributions to building the new playground?” Midway through the conversation, Xabi realises that she knows more about monetary organisation than he does and that this entire discussion is for his sake. He kind of wants to give her a hug now.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The hospital waiting bay is cleaner than last time he drove a kid in, Stevie decides. But that is possibly because Dale cut his finger off and bled everywhere, while Jon only lost two of his remaining baby teeth- anything else was internal.

 

Xabi has got his head in his hands, and his knees are shaking. Stevie has just got off the phone with the children’s babysitter, he sighs: “Do you want me to get to a pack of chips or a coffee or something?” He gets no response. “He’ll be okay, Xabi. He’s a tough kid.”

 

“What if it’s not just a concussion?” Xabi asks, lip quivering.

 

 _Christ,_  Stevie thinks.  _What if it’s not just a concussion?_  “Then he’s got a dad who’s willing to do anything to help him get better, yeah?”

 

“Why is it taking so long?”

 

“Because they’re doing a scan, then you’ll be allowed in, that’s what the doctor said.” Stevie repeats, rather aware that Xabi wasn’t listening when the doctor was speaking before he took Jon away. He watches Xabi crack and uncrack his knuckles agitatedly, then reaches over, puts his hand on top of Xabi’s left one to stop him. “Hey,” Xabi glances at him, Stevie rubs his thumb across his wrist. “Jon will be alright. It was a shitty tackle, but he wasn’t hit by a car, okay?”

 

Xabi glares. “It fucking feels like it.”

 

“Yeah, of course it does. He’s your kid, it’s terrifying.” And to be fair, the tackle was actually pretty fucking terrifying as well, Stevie thinks. Daisy was running down the wing, and so of course Jon had his eyes on her, and he only began to turn once she had passed the ball. Unfortunately, the ball never made it to his feet, as he was, as Xabi put it, “brutally” tackled without the ball by a girl and boy from different angles and Stevie’s pretty sure that neither of them should have been in the under-11 division two competition. Either way, apart from the loss of his baby teeth, his shoulder might put him out for next month’s ballet concert as well.

 

Staring at him with sad eyes Xabi says, “I just want him to be okay.” He sighs, “He’s been mad at me because I grounded him over what happened.”

 

“Well, he doesn’t hate you. He’d have told me if he did.”

 

“Y-yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Stevie says honestly, “so, chips or coffee?”

 

“Oh, uh, both?”

 

Stevie lets go of Xabi’s wrist, “Alright, I’ll be back in a sec.”

 

“Stevie, wait,” Xabi says quietly. Stevie spins around, he’s a few metres away now. “I am sorry,” he swallows.

 

“I’ll get your coffee.”

 

* * *

 

 

 Stevie knocks on the door and Jon’s face lights up, he’s been out from the x-ray and CT scan for half an hour and he is looking much better than he did going in. “Mr. Gerrard! Did you see the match?!” he’s grinning, arm in a sling. “Dad said I scored a goal!”

 

“You scored an awesome goal, kiddo,” Stevie nods, standing at the foot of the hospital bed. “You can’t remember?”

 

“No sir, I don’t remember any of the match.” Jon says a little more quietly than usual. “I can’t remember any of today,” he adds. “It’s kinda cool!  _Weird,_  but _cool_!”

 

Stevie chuckles, “Oh yeah? Not even what you had for brekky?”

 

Jon’s brow furrows, thinking hard, he grins. “Nope! I bet it was fruit loops though, I’m always allowed fruit loops on Saturday! Papa? Did I have fruit loops?”

 

 _No,_  Xabi thinks,  _you were grounded_. You had oatmeal and you gave it to Pablo. “Uhhh,” he says guiltily instead. Stevie cocks an eyebrow, while Jon looks at him expectantly. “What’s the last thing you  _do_  remember, monkey?”

 

Jon glances at Stevie and then glares back to his dad, “PAPA! Don’t call me  _that_  here,”

 

“Uh oh,” Stevie laughs, “the secret is out Jon!”

 

Xabi grins at his son who looks absolutely mortified, Jon even hates it when he gets called monkey in front of his grandparents or uncle Pepe, much less cool Mr. Gerrard. And at least he managed to make Stevie smile which is at least slightly validating, or, maybe it means that the guy doesn’t completely despise him. Or, Xabi supposes sadly, the guy is just humouring him for the sake of his student’s wellbeing.

 

* * *

 

 

Stevie’s phone rings while he and Jon are competing over the number of broken bones that they’ve had. “Yeah, Tim I can’t talk right now, yeah I’m… yeah, at the hospital with— uhuh. I can pick up dinner? Oh, alright okay. I’ll see you— alright bye.”

 

When he hangs up, Jon looks at him curiously. “Is that your  _boyfriend_?”

 

Stevie chokes, “what, who told you that I—”

 

“Jill saw you holding hands with a boy. She told everyone, we think it’s cool! Does he like football, Mr. Gerrard?” Jon looks at him earnestly while his dad simply stares at the floor because a) his son’s teacher has a boyfriend, b) said boyfriend doesn’t let said teacher mark homework in bed, and c) his son is totally okay with his teacher having a boyfriend?

 

“Oh,” Stevie says, “No, he doesn’t actually.”

 

Jon screws up his face, “Well, what about ballet?”

 

“Uh, no, he doesn’t really like that either.”

_“Dogs?”_  Jon’s rapidly losing patience now.

 

“Um, he’s a cat person.” I’m cat person, Xabi thinks, I’ve just sacrificed them for that hound! He already dreads that the babysitter maybe hasn’t fed Pablo. Wonders if he’ll get the blame for Pablo starving to death. Decides that he probably will.

 

“Ew,” Jon says. “I  _hate_ cats.”

 

“Me too,” Stevie says, screwing up his face the same way Jon did, which of course makes him laugh a bit.

 

“I think I like girls that like dogs more than boys who like cats,” Jon says thoughtfully. “Sorry, Mr. Gerrard.” And all that Xabi can really think is that his son is totally okay with men having boyfriends?

 

“That’s okay, Jon,” Mr. Gerrard says, “girls are pretty cool too.”

 

Jon shudders. “Not  _THAT_  cool, sir. They have cooties!” Stevie turns to grin at Xabi, but Jon's dad still hasn’t looked up from the ground and Stevie slightly wonders if he is to blame.

 

“So, do you get to stay overnight, kiddo?”

 

“Yes!” Jon yells, “I get to eat the hospital food!” He says with such enthusiasm that Stevie just knows is going to be quashed.

 

Stevie nudges Xabi with his foot. “Are you staying over?”

 

He looks up, slightly startled. “Uh, yeah. They said they could wheel in a spare bed, so I was going to… go pick up the girls.” He says quietly.

 

“I can stay with Jon if you want to go now?”

 

“You don’t have to pick up dinner?” Xabi asks slowly.

 

“No, uh, not tonight. I could, pick up some from the canteen downstairs? Jon might realise his mistake about the food sooner rather than later?”

 

Xabi chuckles, “If you don’t mind staying with him, I’ll bring some takeaway here with the girls.” Stevie nods. "Hijo, behave for Mr. Gerrard, okay?" Xabi says, kissing his cheek and ruffling his hair. "And tell him if the pain gets worse, okay? Love you."

 

"Ugh dad! I'm fine!"

 

Stevie grins at Jon and pulls up a chair beside his bed. “So…guess who has Fifa on his iPad?”

 

“Sir that’s not fair!” Jon huffs, his left arm bound in a sling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Xabi, Jon's entire class think that Mr. Gerrard's boyfriend is really cool. I wonder if Mr. Gerrard thinks the same thing?
> 
>   
> Pablo, finds it personally heartbreaking.  
> 
> 
> Unsurprisingly, I have no idea what the next chapter will involve.


	12. "Did you get grape flavour?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is late-night grocery shopping a fic trope? Mary seems to think so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet Tim. 
> 
> If you're compelled to imagine him, he looks, something like this: 
> 
> (He [reads books, ](https://igcdn-photos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xpf1/outbound-distilleryimage1/t0.0-17/OBPTH/0c821194c82e11e2bfae22000a9e0782_7.jpg)[owns chickens,](http://resources0.news.com.au/images/2015/04/18/1227309/120336-ec11d50a-e498-11e4-a30f-c66423242607.jpg) and I don't know, probably volunteers at soup kitchens.)  
> 

Emma is bouncing up and down in the child seat that perches atop the shopping trolley. She's awfully sprightly for nearly midnight. Awfully sprightly, Xabi thinks, given she'll be up at 5am. He squats down to compare the density of coffee granules in five specific packs and can’t wait to explain to the individual at the checkout that his middle child so thoughtfully used his coffee grinder to grind crayons for, as she so eloquently put it: “ART, Papa,  _art_.” He’s narrowed it down to four different brands.

 

"Haaaaalllo," he hears Emma say, probably to a shelver or a box of cereal or something.

 

"Hey there," the box of cereal says, followed by: "I like your outfit, little one," in a voice that sounds awfully like...  _Oh fuck._

 

Emma coos "Hallooo," again.

 

"You're out awfully late on your own, sweetie." Mr. Gerrard says, glancing at her dad.

 

"Not alone," Xabi mumbles, still on the floor, determinedly not looking up. He’s not exactly sure what the protocol for running into… not-exes doing late night grocery shopping. Not exactly sure what the protocol is for Mr. Gerrard, generally. He tugs his paperboy cap down to his ears as he stands, dumping three different bulk coffee packs into the already nappy laden trolley.

 

When he finally gets up, he sees that Mr. Gerrard, grey knitted jumper and all, has bent down and is letting Emma squeeze his nose.  _Christ._  “Squishy!” She exclaims.

 

“Bunny don’t do that,” Xabi says, adjusting the [rabbit hoodie](http://41.media.tumblr.com/1af62370bef57ad22cd70c445c421756/tumblr_nmy87p2mky1qdvi2go1_500.jpg) she is wearing. “Hey? You can’t poke his nose.”

 

“It’s alright, she’s okay.”

 

His face aside, Xabi’s still not exactly sure how to respond to Stevie being willing to humour Emma with all of her tactility. “So, uh, what are you doing here at this time of night?” Because, let’s be honest, he thinks, you’re not a single dad who forgets that apparently grocery shopping even needs to be done at all. Or that the kids are going to need packed lunches tomorrow.

 

Stevie rubs his neck sheepishly. “Oh, uh… I fell asleep… three hours into marking science homework.”

 

Suspicious, Xabi narrows his eyes, trying to determine if Stevie’s blushing, or if maybe he is just radiating enough embarrassment for the two of them. “You’ve uh—” Xabi takes Emma’s hand away from his face, “Ah, I think she… uh just got texta all on your cheek.”

 

Stevie ducks his head, definitely blushing now, a pink rash spreading down his neck and— Xabi takes a deep breath, thinks that he should have just taken his girl and run when she started talking to the cereal. Instead he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a packet of baby wipes.

 

Stevie looks a little confused.  _oh fuck now what?_  Xabi thinks, it’s not as though I can touch your face. “Use this,” he says, awkwardly handing one over. Stevie swipes at the wrong side, naturally. “N-n-no. It’s on the other, uh.”

 

“Can you—”

 

Xabi bites his lip, presses the mark with his thumb and the baby wipe. After a few seconds of rubbing, the blue patch of marker has dissipated and turned into a patch of red, irritated skin.

 

“Stevie!” Yells a voice from the adjacent aisle. Stevie clears his throat and steps back. And when guy comes into view, he’s looking down at a few boxes in his hands. “What flavoured condoms do you want Steve?” The guy looks up and sees them, and,  _hey,_  Xabi thinks, he’s  _very_  handsome. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry—” he says, drawing closer, eyes now focused on Emma in the trolley. “Hey.”

 

Xabi decides that Stevie couldn’t possibly have been blushing earlier because he is now at least five shades pinker. “Hey, this, uh, this is Xabi, he uh— and this is Tim.”

 

Great! Xabi thinks. Absolutely. Fucking.  _Perfect._  I didn’t even have condoms that were within their expiry date and now— now… what is that strawberry? cherry? raspberry? Not that it matters, he thinks bitterly, Stevie’s arse tastes nice anyway. He’s well aware that there’s a small part of his brain telling him that that’s not how flavoured condoms work, but what the hell would his brain know? Besides, it’s not like he’s ever tried them and it’s certainly not like he has any reason to buy them now.

 

“Hi there,” Tim smiles, fumbles to transfer the boxes (orange, chocolate, strawberry) to one hand, so the other is free as he offers it to Xabi, “Jon’s dad, right? How’s his arm?”

                               

Xabi stares down at his trolley. It’s loaded up with nappies and milk and bright coloured cereal and French fries, and as many carrots as he could carry, because apparently the relationship between the eldest ratbags and broccoli is hostile. “It’s um, in a cast, he’s fine though.” He says quietly. Tim nods, his palm having found its way to the small of Stevie’s back and Xabi can see it rubbing softly there.  _Oh,_  he thinks. You didn’t fall asleep marking homework, did you?

 

Emma, in a rare moment of complete and utter attentiveness tugs on the nearest thing, (which happens to be Stevie’s shirt) and says: “Sleepy,” while giving Tim the ultimate side-eye.

 

Xabi wants to bundle her up and let her drink as much warm milk as she wants because  _thank god_. “I’ve got to—” Stevie and Tim both nod, though Stevie looks as though he’s in physical pain, which is, well. Xabi pushes the trolley away at a speed verging on illegal, and yet he still manages to hear:

 

“I mean, is extra large even going to be big enough? Should I go back and see if—”

 

And gruff (but kind, god,  _always_  kind): “shut up, you loser” followed by the sound of laughter when (Xabi glances behind to see) Tim is given a soft shove into the condiments. And then, worst of all: “Did you get grape flavour?” in a husky voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [Anaile20GH](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaile20GH/) made these cool graphics and a playlist (which I haven't had a chance to listen to just yet), but you should!
> 
>  
> 
> [Papa, is that Mr. Gerrard? (A Playlist)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLa7ruJMPMD7pLDIagFgAjSFIYYA_NJzaD)


	13. “Orangutan icing is an exact match with your beard,”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xabi gets a bit of happiness... for a bit. Stevie still has a boyfriend.

“Papa! No!” Jon cries as Xabi stirs the peanuts in. “Mr. Gerrard told all the mums that they couldn’t put any nuts in their cookies.”

 

Xabi stares down at the pile sitting atop his cupcake batter, “What,” he says, rather aware that none of the mums have been as intimate as he with Mr. Gerrard’s nuts, and then proceeds to flush red at the very thought.

 

Jon repeats (word for word) his first statement, while glaring at his dad, with a final emphasis on: “no, _nuts._ ”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

Nodding determinedly, Jon says: “They’re not allowed, Papa.” And Xabi wonders when his kid started caring about what was allowed? He’s vaguely proud nevertheless.

 

“Okay,” Xabi sighs, glancing at his watch, “Alright, I’ll— whip up another batch,”

 

“Oh and Papa?” Jon narrows his eyes, “it tastes  _better_ when you don’t use the mixer.”

 

Xabi ruffles his hair, tiredly. “Yeah yeah, I’m on it.”

 

Jon smiles, “I’m going to find Pablo.”

 

Xabi decides that this is a freakin’ nightmare and how was his son allowed to sign up for this without his consent? Yes, Jon said, I’ll give 100 cupcakes for the end of year bake sale. Yes, he said, I love raising money for orphan orangutans! Of course I can do that. And Xabi just knows that between the fact that Pablo is now covered in icing sugar and how Jon has been evenly dividing the cookie dough between he and his sister, (even though he told Xabi that the cookie dough didn’t taste good enough for the bake sale) that his son had no intention on helping out until the frosting stage.

 

Which, is unsurprising, and relatively manageable, Xabi thinks as he stirs the second batch of batter.

 

* * *

 

 

 The second batter meets a similar fate to the first when Xabi goes to rummage through the cupboards in an attempt to find a cake tray, and Ane pours an entire bottle of blue food colouring into the mix. She grins at him. “Look Pa!”

 

Jon looks considerably less happy. “No! Dad they’ve got to be orange!”

 

“What,” he says running a hand through his hair. “Why.”

 

“ORANGUTAN CUPCAKES!”

 

Xabi kisses Ane’s cheek and lifts her down off the bench, “Go wash your hands sweetie,” and turns back to face Jon. “Blue orangutans are rare?” he asks hopefully.

 

“PAPA!” Jon scowls, trying to put his arms on his hips

 

“Okay,” he says softly, because Jon has never shown an interest in baking before so there is no way he’s going to discourage this. “Okay, let’s… make another batch then.” He sets the blue mix next to the nut mix and stares at them both pitifully, goes to preheat the oven.

 

* * *

 

 

 The third batch, is perfect: Nut-free, orange, and hand mixed. A fifth child that won’t clamber into bed at 5am on Sunday, and, most importantly, he thinks proudly: a good shade of ginger.

 

The kids are chasing Pablo around trying to glue gumdrop buttons and Licorice allsorts onto him and Xabi’s spooned the first dollop of mix into its little baking cup when the doorbell and smoke detector go at the same time. Fuck, Xabi remembers, you chucked last night’s leftovers back in the oven, you  _idiot_. “Jon! Can you get the door, hijo?” He calls out, reaching for a tea towel to swat the smoke away.

 

 _Of course,_  Xabi realises in hindsight. “Hey Jon—” Mr. Gerrard starts, his arms laden with Tupperware containers filled with other treats and cookies, “Are your cupcakes ready to be handed over?”

 

Jon peers back into the kitchen. “Not yet.”

 

“Oh,” Mr. Gerrard says, “Do I smell burning?” He asks. “Jon… is something on fire?”

 

Jon glances behind him again, shrugs nonchalantly, “I don’t know, sir.”

 

“Hold these.” Mr. Gerrard says, handing over the boxes and jogging into the kitchen.

 

Xabi’s managed to transfer last nights’ roast into the sink where the tap is now running full blast but he still has oven-mitts on and consequently can’t get to the smoke detector to stop it goddamn— oh, he thinks. Of course the fucking cupcake collector comes now.

 

“What do you need me to do?” Mr. Gerrard yells through the smoke. Xabi thought that Mrs. Reina was picking up Jon’s cupcakes because she volunteered and she definitely only lives three doors down so—  _hi_. The fact that Stevie is stood in the thoroughfare of Pablo and Ane running laps around the kitchen bench means that he had little chance to stop the— the bowl holding the third batch wobbles on the precipice of the bench, clipped by Pablo’s gleeful wagging tail. Stevie throws himself at the ground, and hits it with a thud. Only half a second, Xabi decides mournfully, after the perfect batter splattered across the floor.

 

Jon has pulled a water pistol from somewhere, and a few moments later the fire detector has been silenced. “What happened to the cakes?” He asks curiously.

 

Xabi glares at Pablo who is panting and wagging his tail even more enthusiastically now that he has seen Stevie. “Your dog happened.” He says, quietly, dropping the oven mitts beside the sink and squatting down to inspect the damage.

 

“Oh.” Jon says, “Well, Mr. Gerrard’s here to collect them.” he continues thoughtfully. Then he and Ane just chase Pablo outside.

 

“Yes,” Xabi says helping Stevie up, “I can see that.”

 

Stevie bites his lip. “You’re not done, are you?”

 

Xabi sighs, his face a little dusty from the flour and smoke and probably exhaustion. “That was the third batch.”

 

“The other two?”

 

“Uh, nuts and blue.”

 

“Blue balls, hey?” Stevie makes his way over to the bowls, grinning. “We did send a note home about the nuts, but I can’t see a problem with this batch…” he says, dipping his thumb into the blue mix and licking it clean. Xabi’s gaze flickers between his eyes and mouth, eyes and mouth, eyes and— he looks away, stomach doing little pathetic flips.

 

“Jon doesn’t want blue orangutans.”

 

Stevie cackles and Xabi wants to sock him one. “Couldn’t you just have given them orange frosting?”

 

“Not according to my ten year old.”

 

“Alright then. Where’s your mop? I’ll clean this up and you can get started on the next batch,” says Stevie, wiping his hands on his jeans.

 

* * *

 

 

All but one batch of cupcakes are in the oven now, so the focus shifts to frosting.

 

“Mate,” Stevie says, jabbing Xabi in the ribs with a wooden spoon, “you’re mixing the icing all wrong.”

 

Xabi cocks an eyebrow, “Am not.”

 

“Huh, pass it here, alright?”

 

“No, it’s fine.”

 

“C’mon Xabi, give us the bowl,” Stevie pokes him in the sides this time making Xabi yelp and step closer towards the bench.

 

“No,”

 

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” mumbles Stevie, mouth way too close to Xabi’s ear.

 

_“Sabotage.”_

 

“From a third grade teacher? I don’t think so.”

 

Xabi elbows him in the guts, the air that Stevie wheezes out brushing against the back of his neck. “I’m not risking it. I’ve been in the kitchen for three hours now.”

 

“You’ll be in here for at least another—” He grabs at Xabi’s arm to check his watch, “At least another two hours if you mess up this batch of frosting.”

 

“…’m not going to fuck it up, I know what I’m doing.”

 

“It’s about to curdle,” Stevie says, putting his hand on top of Xabi’s that refuses to relinquish control. “You’ve got to whip it.”

 

Xabi spins around, presses his back up against the bench so that there’s at least a few inches between him and Jon’s teacher. “Fine, all yours.” He rolls his eyes, shoving it over.

 

Stevie catches it, leans in, says: “Sorry, wasn’t trying to be a jerk,” then pecks him on the cheek. “Go chuck the last batch in the oven, okay? Otherwise I’ll be here all night, and I have work tomorrow.”

 

“Uh,” Xabi says and tries to keep his mind from wandering. “Yeah.” Tries to— because… this… isn’t what it would be like if… this isn’t what he and Stevie would be like if it worked. If they had made it work. This isn’t what it would feel like at eight pm on a Sunday night with the kids quiet on the couch and this isn’t. He heads over to the oven, doesn’t look back at Stevie because this is not what it would be like to have someone in this fucking huge kitchen with him that isn’t his mother or the dog. Stevie smiles at him with an intolerable amount of fondness and Xabi just knows that if they were together that Stevie would never be looking at him like that because why would anyone smile like that at him? “Where are my the kids?"

 

“They’ve fallen asleep,” Stevie says, leaning back to peer into the lounge room.

 

“Not in front of the television?”

 

“Uh… yeah.”

 

Xabi sighs into his glass of wine, “Okay, I’ll just go put them to bed, one sec.” He stands up.

 

“Do you want me to help w—”

 

“No, it’s fine.”

 

Xabi has just returned from carrying Ane up to bed and tucking her in, when he finds Stevie, with Pablo splayed across his lap, cradling Emma as they sit beside a sleeping Jon on the couch. “She woke up,” he says simply. “And it’ll save you a trip, right?”

 

Xabi ducks his head, pulls Jon into his arms and refuses to acknowledge the fact that his little boy is already very close to being too big to carry to bed. “Follow me,” he says.

 

* * *

 

 

Stevie has perfected three different shades of orange frosting that he’s whipping interminably while they wait for the cupcakes to cool for icing.

 

Xabi’s picking at the squid pintxos (that he just knows his mother would be ashamed of) he spent ten minutes preparing them in an attempt to stop himself eating all the mixture, when he feels a finger brush against his chin. He looks up.

 

“Guess what?” Stevie smirks.

 

Xabi narrows his eyes, touches at his beard to find it sticky with—  _frosting_. “What the—”

 

“The third colour of orangutan icing is an exact match with your beard,” Stevie says gleefully as though he has been planning this attack for the last half hour he spent fucking around with various shades of food colour.

 

“Did you just?”

 

Stevie wiggles his eyebrows challengingly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” of course, he gets a handful of flour in his hair for such having such gall. He grins, then with all of the responsible teacher that he can muster up, says: “This last batch need decoration, okay?”

 

And within ten or so minutes, every last cupcake has been iced and given monkey ears and a banana lolly, and Stevie is loading them into boxes and layering them just  _so_. When he pulls on his coat, he kisses Xabi, presses his lips to Xabi’s upper one and licks off the icing sugar that is sprinkled there, says: “Alright. I’m off. The school will let you know how your cupcakes sold.”

 

 _Oh,_  Xabi thinks, because suddenly everything is going all too quickly “I can carry them out—”

 

“No, no it’s fine you just get to bed, it’s nearly ten.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Stevie stacks up all of the bags and boxes and. “Okay, goodnight.” He says, and shuts the door behind him.

 

And the house is empty again.

 

Quiet again.

 

Pablo (thanks to Stevie) is asleep on Jon’s bed again.

 

And Xabi is alone again.

 

* * *

 

 

He crashes into bed, and spends an hour staring at the ceiling, somewhat numb.

 

At about midnight, he can hear his phone buzzing in the other side of the room where he hid it under Pablo's blankets after having thumbed out:  _[come back and don't leave me, please]_  before hastily hitting delete. 

 

His jaw aches, clenched in an attempt to stop himself from rutting against the sheets, the taste of orange icing and Stevie biting at the back of his throat.

 

 


	14. "Wanna lay on your back?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N (6 weeks after posting): It turns out that this chapter actually adds very little to  
> the practicality of the entire storyline, you're welcome to read it, but the [end note]  
> suggests how it should probably be taken.

* * *

  _19:12: [hey can you come over]_

* * *

 

Stevie glances around the street, rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. He looks down at the text message open on his phone. Hasn't seen Jon since graduation two months ago, can't wait to see his face when he sees the telescope. If he’s honest though, the one thing he wasn’t expecting to be greeted with was Jon’s dad’s mouth on his. Was Xabi’s hands on the hem of his hoodie, on his arms. Stevie opens his mouth, lets Xabi lick into it, wants to ask, doesn’t want to ask.

 

Xabi pushes him up against the wall and Stevie drops the bag he was holding so that he can get his own hands on the guy’s beautiful face. Get his hands on— god, he thinks as Xabi sucks down on his lip, what am I doing. Thinks, Christ, should I even be— until Xabi pulls away, breathing heavily and says: “I’m leaving.”

 

Stevie swallows, takes his hands off Xabi’s beard, says: “what,”

 

Xabi looks at him curiously, “Tomorrow,” he says slowly. Then wonders if he should repeat himself or explain more, but Stevie seems to have entirely understood so he instead goes for: “I want you to fuck me.”

 

Stevie’s stutters “what,” again.

 

“Need to jerk you off first.” Says Xabi thoughtfully, all too coherent, fingers pressing up against Stevie’s belly. “Want to get my hands on you, want to—” he cuts himself off. Looks Stevie dead in the eye. Says calmly: "Full disclosure. If you don't want your dick in my hand then now is the time to say something. Or walk away, or, both."

 

It scares him a little, Stevie decides. How guilty he doesn’t feel, how wrong this… doesn’t feel. He glances around the room they’re in, realises that it’s empty. No longer cluttered with screaming kids and laughter and science experiments and dog hair and playdough— there’s just a few cardboard boxes lying strewn across the room, some packing tape resting atop them. The loungeroom is no longer filled with love. Suddenly the wandering fingers are off his body, and Xabi has stepped back, his eyes clouded a bit.

 

Catching the look, Stevie grabs his wrist, spins them around, says: “no... that  _wasn’t_  a no.” And with a bite of his lip, meets his stare. "I won't even touch you and you'll still come first." The grin is wiped off his face when Xabi flips them and presses him hard up against the wall, rubs his palm against Stevie's fly and asks:

 

“Was that a yes?” He is pretty proud of his resolve right now. Stevie doesn’t even get the chance to finish his nod before: "Because you are not even going to lose your pants," Xabi says maybe too loudly, too rushed, too… desperate into Stevie's throat, "... 'm just going pull your dick out of those fucking jeans."

 

"Hey, I like these jeans,"

 

"I like your arse in these jeans," Xabi admits, "and they'd look good on the floor," he continues, "but they're going to look the hottest with your dick just poking out of them."

 

Stevie flushes. Xabi's knuckles, pressing streaks of heat across his groin are beginning to work in a pattern that is going to drive him crazy, "Christ," he breathes. These jeans don't even like it when I'm half hard, he thinks, and now look at what you’re doing to me.

 

Xabi has worked Stevie’s fly open and Stevie’s aware that he shouldn’t be enjoying this anywhere near as much as he is. “C’mon Xab, can you get my pants off, mate?” he whines. “I’m not 19 anymore.”

 

He’s met with a smirk and then he realise he’s getting wanked off by a dude who has the audacity to fucking sneer at him. Stevie gulps. Xabi shakes his head, "Gonna jerk you off," he says resolutely, "and you'll come like you're still 19." 

                                            

Stevie reddens, because  _noooo_  this is a grown man with three children he is NOT allowed to do that. However, two can play at this game, and- "What," he says with a leer, "just like when you did in the car?"

 

"Yeah, just like that. You can come over my hand alright?" Stevie's arms are still braced against the walls from when he was shoved hard, and Xabi just knows that he's got him. "Maybe I'll clean the mess up like you did for me?"

 

Stevie, for the record is well aware that he's at an age where blushing during sex is totally pathetic. He's also well aware that his blush is fucking everywhere and Xabi goddamn knows it.

 

It turns out that handjobs are particularly good for both of them. Not they'd ever admit to it (nor ever have to), but they both rather like having each other’s mouths free to lick into or even just to talk. "You have no idea, do you?" Asks Xabi, as he flicks his wrist, tightens his grasp on the base of Stevie's dick, smirks.

 

"No idea... what?" Stevie glares. 

 

"What my mouth would do when it's on your cock." Xabi says casually, punctuating the word ‘mouth’ with a bite on Stevie's neck. 

 

Stevie shrugs, he has a pretty good idea how talented the guy's tongue is, so... "You can't use it, that's not fair game. I might end up coming before you."

 

Xabi sucks down on his tongue, and Stevie kind of chokes so they have to pull away from each other. "Well, you're pretty big, shall we agree?" Xabi asks, squeezing his fingers around Stevie.

 

Stevie, who huffs. Then glares down at his stomach. "Am  _not_ ," he says petulantly, because he is  _not_ getting a belly, despite what his mum and fucking Pepe have to say. He sighs a little. It’s not as though he’s had heaps of time to work out recently and also maybe curly fries are a bigger part of his life than he’d like to admit to and Tim has been very keen to nap on his belly and— maybe Stevie’s a little sad that Xabi decided to comment on it in the middle of this, though.

 

 _"Tonto,"_   Xabi mutters, taking a hand away to shove him softly. "Your dick, for christs sake, Steven. Your  _dick_  is big."

 

"Oh."

 

"And, my mouth is not going to fit all of that," he continues, giving Stevie the chance to rock his hips up. "So, do you want to know what I'd do?"

 

"Uh," Stevie says vaguely, still a little busy thinking about his stomach. "I guess?"

 

Xabi frowns. “Should I not speak?”

 

“What?”

 

“Should I… just kiss you or something? I’m not really… very good at… talking at the same time as—”

 

Stevie kisses him softly. “I’ll take whatever you’re offering,”

  

* * *

 

 

They drink a bit and talk over a packet of crisps, because try as they might, the stamina of 19 year olds, they have not.

 

“Where to?” Stevie asks quietly, taking a swig of scotch and ugh he can’t remember the last time he drank liquor. Steals Xabi’s cartoon of orange juice for a chaser.

 

“Hong Kong,”

 

He nods, and, well aware that he has no business in asking: “How long?”

 

“Three years, they’ll give me a posting of five if it’s working.” Xabi says, swallows down from the bottle as well. “I’ve found a few good schools, but my company have already sent a few people over, so it’ll figure itself out,” he continues.

 

“Yeah…” Stevie says, looking at the floor. “I uh, brought Jon the telescope, we talked about him having my old one,” he gestures to the abandoned bag beside the door, “and your girls some toys, but I guess… well, you’re not going to have space to take them.”

 

“Oh,” Xabi says, “I didn’t know that—”

 

Stevie shrugs, “Had no idea what the text meant.”

 

"I head off tomorrow, the kids are staying at their grandparents until I get things settled. I... wanted to… uh," he trails off, sucks down another gulp, gestures between them.

 

Stevie smiles weakly. "Cool."

 

Xabi looks as though he’s in pain, and Stevie is not sure that it’s the alcohol. “Ah... are you… you’re willing to stay the night?” he asks, a little nervously.

 

“Oh,” Stevie mumbles, “Yeah, thought you wanted me to get inside you?”

 

Xabi nods, “Yes. But I thought I’d order some takeaway in the meantime.”

 

“Sounds good,” 

 

Arguably, it is at this stage, that any pretense of 'casual' flies, somewhat, out the window. The window shatters. Maybe the glass cuts. They bleed either way.

  

* * *

 

A little later on, Stevie's got him from behind. And yeah, okay now that they've changed positions and there's a bit more lube on his dick, it kind of slides around when he pulls it back from a thrust. Slick, it rubs down against Xabi's perineum or just leaks a little onto the outer rim and Stevie's rather sure he's going to have a complaint lodged against him soon, maybe a "keep your hand on your dick so it stops falling out please". Instead, each time he pulls out and finds his dick unwilling to immediately thrust back in, the man beneath him bites down a moan.

 

A minute or so of his dick having slicked up every area of Xabi's arse with some warm, gross mixture of lube, come, and sweat, he's graced with a groan. "Feels good," Xabi says, blindly fumbling around to touch at Stevie's hip, "When you make a mess, Stevie it feels good-- ah," he's choked off as Stevie pushes into him again,  "feels, I like it, when you, yes,"

 

Stevie hums against his shoulder. "Can't help it," he says against the skin, "Using both my hands already," he grins and Xabi almost chuckles slightly, as if his mind is not entirely enveloped on focusing on the four points of contact Stevie has on his body. Between the guy's mouth and dick, two of the points are naturally accounted for, but it is his goddamn  _hands_  that have Xabi writhing brainlessly on the sheets.

 

Stevie's left palm is stroking lewdly up and down Xabi's shaft indecisively as if he can't choose whether he'd rather squeeze at the head of the cock or at the balls and Xabi thinks that it is all very overwhelming regardless. Overwhelming enough that Xabi maybe wants to whisper: ‘do you want to get on a plane with me tomorrow?’ Maybe wants to, certainly doesn’t.

 

The fingers of the other, are playing softly with the rim of Xabi's belly button and he's pretty sure he never ever had this kink before. They dips in and out and runs soft patterns across his tummy and he feels as though somehow they are both getting off on this? Not cool, Xabi thinks, making me kinky.

 

* * *

 

"Wa-wait," Stevie groans into Xabi’s shoulder, "This is it, isn't? We're not going to see each other, ever again," he has ground to a frustrating halt.

 

Xabi looks up at him, tries for casual. "This is it," he says, trying to get friction against the dick inside him going again.

 

Stevie's eyes cloud over and he bites at his lip as he pulls out completely. "Wanna lay on your back?"

 

Xabi rolls over, lets Stevie spread his knees, hook his ankles around him. "What are you—”

 

"Gonna make love to you, Xabi. Just once."

 

Xabi feels something inside him shatter.

  
  
Stevie cups his jaw and kisses him: square, soft, steady. He presses a hand up against one of Xabi’s lats, strokes down with intention, holds his dick and pushes in slowly.

 

Xabi lets out a little puff of air into Stevie's mouth and says: "is this what it's meant to feel like?" as Stevie sheathes himself inside, nothing further to press in. Nothing to separate them anymore.

 

"Hmmm?" He asks, mouth against Xabi's neck, sucking. 

 

"Feels nice, Stevie,"

 

"Yeah, I like it too."

 

Xabi does not remember having ever experienced this. He's experienced love, for sure, and sex and adoration and you could give him a list and he'd manage to tick most of the boxes but this? Is new. Early on, decades ago, he’d felt a lot, done a lot. Women, really, until this bloke came along. He’d looked, sure, but never— never done anything. Christ,  _never_  felt anything like  _this_ with anyone _,_  as Stevie shifts inside him and strokes at Xabi’s hair. Maybe, he wonders it is because my heart is trying to break out of my ribcage and hide. Maybe, he wonders, it's because he feels the same way.

 

If given a list of boxes to tick, Stevie on the other hand, wouldn't manage as comprehensively. But he has a gift, some have mentioned, to throw everything out the door and let intimacy work in whatever way it wants to. With Tim, they go all out, don't last long and end up washing each other in the shower. With his first boyfriend, they challenged each other to see who could go further with blowjobs, which, Stevie reflects, is probably why my gag reflex plays up now. The partner in between those two lived on the other side of the country and they got off on Skype with only each others' face to go by, and, well, it was a fucking challenge even at 24.

 

This? Is new to him as well. This fucking intimacy that he just, he could trust with anything. If he came right now, Xabi wouldn't even be mad. If he accidentally hurt Xabi, the guy wouldn't be mad. If he was a general fucking screw up, Xabi would just— god, Stevie thinks, he'd just open his arms and he  _wouldn't_  be mad. He rocks his hips slowly. "What do you want me to do," he asks, a little raw, far too honest.

 

Leave with me, Xabi thinks. Instead he can only shrug, he's struggling to hold on already. "I don't know, I've never been had like  _this._ "

 

Stevie kisses him again, can't help himself, knows he's getting beard burn. "Are you going to be able to come?"

 

"If we just keep going?"

 

"Yeah,"

 

"Yeah."

 

Stevie smiles. "Me too."

 

Xabi wonders if he ever made any of his lovers feel how Stevie is making him feel now. His heart has never hurt so good, that’s for sure.

 

* * *

 

 

The doorbell rings about five minutes after they’re able to breath and function again, which,  _thank god_ because they were hardly going to just “break for dinner”. Despite such a return to consciousness, it’s Stevie, who has pulled on Xabi’s pyjama bottoms and jogged downstairs, who ends up calling out: “Hey Xabi? I don’t have cash on me!”

 

 _Well,_  Xabi thinks, buttoning up his shirt and grabbing a pair of boxers, perhaps their brains aren’t  _entirely_  functioning.

 

If the delivery girl is surprised that her knock on the door is met by a shirtless man who is not Xabi, nor Pablo, nor three screaming kids, she doesn’t show it. Xabi gives her a twenty dollar tip just in case some horrible occurrence of fate has the Reina’s ordering Thai anytime soon. (Last time he opened the door to a pizza boy, the guy had the nerve to ask if he had company, though very quickly divulged his allegiance.)

 

They head back upstairs.

 

* * *

 

 

“Stevie?” Xabi mumbles, rubbing his beard against his stomach. Stevie’s chewing on something fried, picking at one of the boxes they have set on the bed.

 

“Mmmh?”

 

“Promise me you won’t let people give you shit for this,” he says, petting Stevie’s belly softly. “I know before I was talking about your cock, but this? It’s good, Stevie, it’s… warm and lovely and you’re eating well and a little bit of pudge is, is nice.”

 

“Oi,” Stevie says, swatting at Xabi’s hair, “who are you calling pudgy?”

 

“Mr. Gerrard,” Xabi starts resolutely, “I am trying to give you a compliment,” he says, nosying up against it. “You have lovely tummy.”

 

“Xabi,” says Stevie, _“don’t.”_

 

Xabi nods, pulls away. “Sorry,” he says, rubs his hand against Stevie’s thigh because Stevie has _stolen_  his plaid pyjama bottoms and Xabi decides that they are indeed very soft, and they make him look very cute and god, he’s so close to asking. So close to. To… because maybe Stevie would say yes? Maybe he’d want to come, pack everything up and head off to the other side of the world. Xabi sighs, god, he thinks, you don’t even know if he feels the same way. God, he thinks, he’s got a boyfriend. He won’t want to—

 

“Hey, c’mere, put your feet on my lap,” Stevie says, tugging Xabi a bit closer.

 

Xabi sighs softly when Stevie presses his fingers against the balls of his feet. “Are you—”

 

Stevie smile shyly, eyelashes barely overshadowing how blue his irises are in this light, “Does foot massage sound good to you?”

 

Xabi’s eyes widen, “Gosh,  _yeah._ ”

 

“Then you can feed us both while I get my hands on these,” Stevie says, rubbing his palms to Xabi’s arches. 

 

Between Xabi’s moans and Stevie’s wandering fingers, they end up getting a little more handsy than expected and the food is quickly moved to the floor.

 

* * *

 

  

Xabi kisses him softly, presses him up against the bedframe, still holding his hands. "Alright," he says, determined. "Gonna lick you out, okay?" Stevie's body is already rather pliant again between him and the frame so he just nods. "Do you... How do you want this?" Xabi runs his fingers through Stevie's hair, stroking soft lines. "You could go on all fours, which, from an objective standpoint is probably not going to last long...” Stevie kisses him, but Xabi pulls away to continue: “Uh, you could lie back and I'll lift your legs a bit? That way you can see what's going on, I guess." Stevie hums uncommittedly, maybe because Xabi’s hands are now on his arse. "Or I suppose you could sit on my face? That would give me better access and we'd last longer."

 

Stevie grins, "Last longer than our first night? Hell, Xab you ate me out for like 45 minutes."

 

"Well," Xabi says against his neck, "I think I could better that this time." And Stevie chokes a little. 

 

"You know," Stevie groans pitifully, "It’s going to take me a while to get it up again.”

 

Xabi chuckles, "I think we're in the same boat, so you can relax.”

 

* * *

 

  

They last a bit longer than last time, and while Xabi doesn’t remember much of that first night, he can’t help but notice that Stevie’s quiet. That Stevie’s— a little downhearted maybe. He figures that it’s probably the fact that the guy who has Xabi’s tongue up his arse has a boyfriend (whose tongue isn’t up his arse).

 

When he pulls away, fumbles to take a sip of water, Stevie coughs a little, strokes at his jaw, looks less lost. Says: "You don't have to be down there forever you know,”

 

Xabi laughs, "Why, what are you going to do, eat out my bellybutton—”  They both freeze. "Wait I was joking— I—”

 

"Yes," Stevie says, "I am totally going to do that." He pushes Xabi arse first onto the bed. "How much do you like this shirt?" He mutters, crawling on top of him to kiss him. 

 

"A lot," Xabi groans into his mouth. "No tearing off buttons."

 

Stevie licks down from his lips, goes to work on Xabi's top button with his teeth, lets his hands hitch up the hem of it. 

 

It turns out, that despite neither of them being aware that this was something that they might have been into until the second it was raised, it's inexplicably perfect. 

 

Stevie's nose pressed up against the soft fur of Xabi's belly and his tongue licking hot, determined rings around the rim. Sucking in deep and yeah, maybe at some point, blowing raspberries.

  
Neither of them last anywhere near as long.

 

* * *

 

 

They’ve been up the whole night, maybe shared a small nap around two, and now, come dawn, Stevie finds himself drowning in his feelings a little.

 

Xabi, clad in Stevie’s boxers and that smug grin he’s been wearing since Stevie went down on his stomach, gingerly climbs back into bed, and hands over a steaming mug.

 

Stevie ducks his head because when the sun peers through the windows and strikes Xabi’s cheekbones, he—  _wants_. He sips at the boiling coffee and god, it is exactly the way he likes it and they’ve never even had the conversation and yet— he glances at Xabi’s mug— wherein lies a completely different milk ratio, so it’s not as though the guy just made them the same. It’s not as though… well, no one has ever got it _just right._

 

Xabi is watching him quietly, palm curled around the cup that he has resting on his chest, as he’s laid out across the sheets. With one arm stroking Stevie’s calf, he’s looking up at him, eyes warm to swim in, jaw tensed ever so slightly as if he has spent the whole night with words on the tip of his tongue. As if, when he looks at Stevie, he can’t decide if he wants to swallow them or spit them out, he looks at Stevie as though this is a dilemma he has never faced.

 

Stevie rubs at Xabi’s shin, lets the soft hair bristle beneath his fingertips, “Is good, this.”

 

“Mmmh,” says Xabi, “… ‘ve not much else to offer you,”

 

“Especially now I’ve stolen your pjs, hey?”

 

He makes Xabi laugh, and the hot liquid bubbles out over the rim of Xabi’s mug, sprays out, scolds his chest. Xabi jolts and hisses, and Stevie takes the cup from him, sets it down on the bedside table next to his own. He pulls his t-shirt off the floor, presses it to Xabi’s chest, as the man looks up him helplessly. It soaks up the coffee, doesn’t remove the red that mark’s Xabi’s sternum.  “I’m sorry,” says Stevie.

 

Xabi reaches out, encircles one of Stevie’s hands with his own, “It’s okay,” he says softly. “It’ll heal,” and then, as an afterthought: “and if it doesn’t, it’s… a nice memory to have, no?”

 

Stevie nods, smiles down at him. Christ, realises what he’s doing. What they’ve been… Realises that sans the two week time period, they’ve managed (among other things) foot rubs and shitty takeout overnight. He bows his head, can’t lie anymore. Doesn’t know the words on the tip of Xabi’s tongue but his are going to eat him from the inside if he doesn’t get them out.

 

Xabi’s well aware that his heart thinks that he is a joke, that his heart wants to push him somewhere that he can go buy some courage, a bit of gumption maybe, because— he’s wanted to ask all night. He’s wanted to ask for two weeks. He knows that he’s not offering much. But he wasn’t offering much last night and yet, Stevie came into his bed and arms and— it was okay.

 

“Stevie, come wit—”

 

“I’m getting married.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: (June)- when I wrote this, in my mind it was going to be the end, thus the whole 'giving them a warm bed to muck around in'. However, as this is no longer the end, the fic reads equally well, (if not better) on the premise that they didn't fuck around like this, and that the three important lines:
> 
> [we're leaving]  
> [come with us]  
> [i'm getting married]
> 
> were conveyed via texting.


	15. "Jon pierced his ear with a skewer!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come on guys as if Mr. Gerrard actually goes through with the wedding. Ye of little  
> faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stevie scored and I have two assignments due tomorrow and I have only just started  
> one so. I've also written the next chapter of this. Anyway, I guess you guys deserve  
> this.

Ane Alonso. Stevie stares down at the roll call. God, it's been-- three years? Three years, a new dog, no wedding, no premiership. He glances at the nine year olds, all lined up on the floor. Ane is sporting a cheeky grin, she looks like Jon, looks like Xabi. She's grown so much and Stevie finds himself wondering if she still likes to throw paint at her dad? Wondering when the hell they got back. Wondering if Jon's dating and when Emma will start school.

  
  
Stevie has found himself thinking about this more often than he'd like to admit, in the last couple of years, generally while he's lying in bed with men who won't let him finish his marking, who don't like it when the kitchen table and every flat surface available is covered with animal dioramas.

 

He longs for— well, he thinks, maybe a premiership first and foremost, but then.

  
  
And for the most part, he has accepted his longing.

  
  
Until, little Ane Alonso on day two of his class throws a paper plane at his head and yells: "Jon says hi,".

  
  
And maybe he just falls in love with the entire family all over again. What of it.

  
  
Under the guise of punishment, he asks her after class how her brother is and she grins, laughs, declares: "Yesterday, Papa fell asleep and Jon pierced his ear with a skewer! There was blood everywhere, even on Pablo!"

  
  
Oh my god, Stevie thinks, nothing has changed. "W-was he alright?"

  
  
She rolls her eyes and he (yet again) feels like the biggest dork in the world. "Papa is always fine."

  
  
"Ah," he manages.  _God._

  
  
"Jon is walking me home," she says, as an afterthought to the initial question. "You could come say hi."

  
  
Jon Alonso is leaning up against the school gate, he's gangly now, baby fat long gone and— is that an eyebrow piercing? Stevie just wants to give him a big hug and ask if he’s still dancing. Ane tugs on her brother's shirt and he turns around to see Stevie.

  
  
"Mr. Gerrard," he drawls, voice (suddenly) broken (where did the ten year old who cried in the principal’s office go). "Ane said she got  _you_ ,"

  
  
"I got your message," Stevie holds up the paper plane he has no intention on ever getting rid of. No intention of framing either. Maybe he’ll get a glass box for it.

  
  
Jon smirks at him. "Couldn't miss the opportunity."

  
  
"I hear you're still traumatising dad, too?"

  
  
Jon glances at Ane who is swinging his arm gleefully. "He's just Papa, now." Jon says, purposefully. Stevie has no idea what he's implying. "But yes, whenever the chance arises, we pounce."

  
  
"Does he— is he— uh," Jon stares at him, mouth curled up into a smile. Oh god, Stevie thinks. “How was uh, school in Hong Kong?”

 

The teenager shrugs, “Not enough football. Missed Luca. Lame teachers.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“We didn’t stay that long anyway, Papa didn’t last. He’s so weak.” He laughs.

 

Stevie smiles weakly. “Missed Pablo?”

 

“Yeah! Papa’s an idiot, as if we were going to survive without him.”

 

Stevie clears his throat. How long did they last because it has only been three out of the five year contract and if he’s honest it does not sound like they got anywhere near three. "It was good to see you again, Jon. Say hi to Papa for me," Stevie waves. "See you tomorrow, Ane."

 

* * *

 

  
  
"How was your day?" Xabi asks, taking a bite of steak.

  
  
Ane looks at Jon who grins back at her, then says: "Mr. Gerrard says hi,"

  
  
Xabi chokes. His face turns red, and he coughs until he's spat the food back onto his plate. "What," he manages hoarsely.

  
  
"Mr. Gerrard is my teacher this year!"

  
  
Xabi stares at her. "He's... your..." He can feel his face just kind of, freeze over.

  
  
Ane nods enthusiastically and Emma looks confused. Jon smirks, picks at his peas, drops a carrot to Pablo.

 

“Parent teacher interviews are next week, Pa,” says Ane simply. “You can meet my teacher then.” No, I’m sick next week actually, Xabi thinks. Maybe sick for the next year. Or maybe if I just pierce myself with the fork— wait. Then they’d give Pablo my dinner. So instead he starts coughing again. Ane is beginning to look concerned. Xabi splutters, and thinks that she didn't look that concerned as she videoed Jon stabbing their father in the ear last night. Ane continues, unperturbed. “He’s cool! I threw paper planes at him."

 

Xabi stares blankly at his plate. Christ, not more detentions please.

 

He counts down the minutes until dinner is finished so he can call his mum. Tell her he’s sick. Won’t be able to make it to parent teacher night. Tell her he’s snowed down in work. That he has puppy training for Pablo (ignoring that said hound is six and not attending puppy training). Tell her that she’ll have to go on behalf of him.

 

Tell her that: “Ma,  _please_.”

 

“Hijo, you and I are well aware that your daughter’s education is more important than any—”

 

“Mama,” Xabi says quietly, biting his lip in an attempt to hide the tremor in his voice. “ _Please.”_  He takes a deep breath. “Just this once.”

 

“Xabier, you are going. You went to all of Jon’s, you are going to all of Ane’s.”

 

Xabi puts the phone down. Punches the wall, hard. Picks the phone back up with his other one. “Can you please come as well then? I’ll be there. I’m just not feeling well.”

 

She “tsk”'s at him and maybe he can just show her into the classroom and then run and hide? “This means your father is babysitting on his own.” He won’t be, Xabi thinks, because I’ll be back at home. Probably reading bedtime stories and eating marshmallows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon says, purposefully.  
> So, guess what next chapter holds.
> 
>   
>    
> 


	16. "Oslo was an axolotl..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parent/Teacher interviews happen. Mr. Gerrard almost cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We were doing Scandinavian geography when she hatched.” Stevie says, unwilling  
> to humour him.

 

At a low point, (perhaps at 3am on Thursday), Xabi emails this to his mum.

Her reply is: [nice try, you are still going]. Followed by a series of weird emoticons and the Canadian Flag.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Alonso,” Mr. Gerrard stands up, holds his right hand out. “Hi.” _Hi, you are looking good. And angry. But, y'know, focus on the positives, Stevie._

 

Xabi freezes. Can’t even take the step closer to be within arms reach. _Am I meant to touch you?_ He thinks. I don't think that'll go well. His mother stares at him, wide eyed.

 

Stevie swallows, glances down at his papers on the desk and retracts his hand. “Uh okay,” he says, sitting and ducking his head a little.

 

Xabi would feel guilty, maybe, if he was capable of feeling anything at all. If he was capable of. “Xabier—what is wrong with you? _Sit down_.” He maybe hears his mum say as she pulls him into a chair. He loosens his tie a little, but it doesn’t really help him feel any less like he’s choking. Why the heck he let Emma choose a tie over a cardigan or his favourite plaid shirt that shows of his neckline he'll never know. Probably common decency.

 

He glances at Stevie, mumbles: “This is my mum… mama this is… Mr. Gerrard. He… he’s… Ane’s teacher, and he was Jon’s teacher…” and he looks _really great and really happy._

 

Stevie beams, with all the charm of the ‘young handsome teacher’ vibe that he has going for him. “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he says, though realises defeatedly why Jon and Ane’s grandma has been brought along. Realises that it is unlikely their dad is going to be speaking at all. If nothing else, he supposes he can take a little heart in that he’s been introduced to Xabi’s mum.

 

Xabi can feel his mother melt a little at Mr. Gerrard’s smile. He wants to die. Wants to yell: ‘He’s married mother, _stop it_.’ Instead he just listens to:

 

“What a pleasure to meet you Mr. Gerrard, I have heard many great things. Jon still talks about you…” _Why does he even do that,_ Xabi thinks. _Why must you tell him that, mother._

 

Stevie bites his lip, glances down at his papers, and when he looks back up his eyes are shining a little. “I saw Jon the other day, he came to pick up Ane, he looks well.” He says earnestly, steals a glance at Xabi. “He’s much taller than I remember.”

 

“Yes,” Xabi says snarkily, “that tends to happen with puberty.”

 

Mr. Gerrard goes a little red and Xabi receives a pinch from beside him punctuated by: _“Xabier.”_ And the second he pulls a face at her, he realises it was probably a mistake. _Ah,_ no, definitely a mistake as it precedes her clipping him behind the ear.

 

“Ow, fuck, ma.” Xabi cries, reaching to cover his ear.

 

“Language!” She bites back.

 

Stevie wonders if counting the panels in the ceiling might be a better activity for all parties.

 

“That’s my sore ear!” Xabi says sulkily, his fingers coming away with a bit of blood on them.

 

“Is that the one Jon pierced?” Stevie laughs before realising that—

 

Xabi glares at him. “Who told you that.” _Oh shit._

 

“Uh,” gulps Stevie. “Do you want a tissue or something?” He holds out a tissue box (peace offering) and—

 

 _wherethefuckisyourweddingring_ , Xabi thinks. His hand hovers in the air for a solid ten seconds before his mum takes a tissue and shoves it into his palm. She decides that now is an appropriate time to interrupt again ( _fine,_ thinks Xabi). “Xabier is feeling unwell. He apologises for being rude.” ( _not fine,_ thinks Xabi, _I do not._ )

 

“Oh, no… it’s alright.” _Is he okay? Are you sure he's not just mad?_

 

Mrs. Alonso frowns at him. “No it is not, Xabier. _Apologise_.”

 

Xabi sighs sadly, Stevie wants to--- god, he doesn’t have to apologise. “… sorry.” He mumbles grudgingly into his hand.

 

“Don’t be.” Stevie says.

 

Mrs. Alonso rolls her eyes, leans in conspiratorially to Stevie. “He is still a teenager, I swear.” Xabi huffs and she turns back to him. “How you are raising three wonderful children _I do not know_.”

 

“Mum, can we not do this now, please.”

 

“I thought you had recovered from your bout with... what was the unnamed illness?” She says with a smirk before focusing on Mr. Gerrard again.

 

Stevie takes the opportunity to hand them each a sheet of paper, "So I was just going to run through the plans for excursions. Uh, then I want to talk about the books we're going to be reading this year and you can let me know if they're not going to be appropriate or if Ane's reading level is above the average..."

  
  
Xabi smirks, can't wait for Mr. Gerrard to try art with Ane. He just nods.

  
"Uh and then I'm collating parental opinion on the class pet, or uh, lack thereof. The kids aren't happy but my coordinator suggested that we donate to Heifer International after what happened last time..."

  
  
Xabi frowns, "What happened last time?"

  
  
"Jon didn't tell you?" Stevie asks quietly, and he looks kind of...

  
  
"Uh," Xabi racks his brain. "Did he get in trouble for it?"

  
  
Mr. Gerrard sighs. "Not _formally_."

 

"What even was the class pet?"

  
  
"Oslo was an axolotl," Says Stevie mournfully. “She was beautiful. A little dorky, because some of her gills used to play up... but... uh, Jon grew sea monkeys, poured glow stick liquid in with the water and then fed them to her."

  
  
"Oslo?"

  
  
"We were doing Scandinavian geography when she hatched.” Stevie says, unwilling to humour him.

  
  
Xabi glances at his mum. "Do you know anything about my son murdering weird sea lizards?"

  
  
Mrs. Alonso scowls. "Is this conversation going to be about reading lists anytime soon?”

 

Well, yeah, Xabi thinks, but, _“What happened to Oslo?”_

 

Stevie drums his fingers against his desk, noticeably antsy. “Oslo contracted a fungal infection from the poisoning, then went a funny colour which meant her tail started curling from stress and then the next time we checked she had passed away.” He sounds a little heartbroken and _Christ,_ Xabi thinks, my son is a murderer--- and is Mr. Gerrard on the verge of tears? Stevie clears his throat. “So this is the layout for the year, it lists the dates of events, carnivals, camps, any public holidays, or excursions.”

 

Xabi nods. “Right.” His mum studies the page. Oh my god, Xabi thinks. Jon killed the class pet and didn't say anything.

 

“So if you have any queries you can call the school for a permission slip, or if there are any concerns you can contact me directly… uh.” Stevie trails off from teacher monologue. “Or, well, the school. You can contact the school if you have any problems.”

 

“Right.”

 

Stevie swallows, “Okay, so now I’m going to run through the academic plan for the year, of course, if you have any hesitations or problems with the curriculum, things that might be inappropriate or not challenging enough, too challenging, please let me know.”

 

I can think of things that are inappropriate and challenging, Xabi thinks bitterly. He says nothing and bites his tongue.

 

“So for the first term, Geography is going to be looking at Island ecosystems, and the project for that will be a take home one, which means diorama time! In maths I’ll be starting them off on long division, and we’ll be going through three different methods of—” A timer goes off. “Shit,” Stevie mutters, glancing at his watch. “Uh, the Ben’s parents are now.”

 

Xabi realises possibly that he should have spent less time arguing with his mother and sulking, realises that of course Mr. Gerrard was going to be entirely professional. “Oh.”

 

“Look, if you have a free afternoon this week, we should go over the syllabus and all of the extracurricular activities?” Stevie asks, and Xabi, upon finally making eye contact can tell that he’s a little nervous. He can also tell that, oh god his eyes are so blue.

 

Xabi receives an elbow to the stomach from his mother. “Alright.” He says, as he gets up, a little dumbfounded.

 

“Taylor’s parents went overtime too, so I’ll meet with them as well.” Stevie coughs a little, as if that’s going to make it any better.

 

“Ahuh.” Xabi says, followed by a polite: “Thanks.” He glances at his mother who is looking at some of the children’s paintings hung up around the classroom. “Ma, we’re going now?”

 

“I’ll meet you in the car, Xabier. I have a quick question for Mr. Gerrard.”

 

"Uh," Xabi says. Then, decides that he can be the bigger man, the morally superior-- "Mr. Gerrard? I'm sorry about what happened to Oslo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what does grandma Alonso ask Mr. Gerrard?


	17. “I didn’t know how much children ate."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "my parents are visiting my brother, tonight is the Reina's date night and my  
> babysitter is sick"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i have kind of given up on this. sorry. uh. this doesn't flow from the last one, i  
> know. anyway. don't be mad. sorry.

 

In hindsight, a call to the school was probably counterproductive to his 'avoid Ane's teacher at all costs' mission, and yet between the already terrible server of the school website and Emma colouring his laptop screen with highlighters, Xabi is not entirely sure a) who is to blame b) whether he can palm one of his kids off on the school tonight or not and c) if he should ban all creative items in the house.

 

“This is Oaktree Primary School, Mr. Gerrard speaking.”

 

Xabi stabs at the air with the peanut butter knife. Christ, it is 7am what are you doing at work? The mission will have to start again tomorrow. He makes a mental note to cross this day out on the calender. “Uh, yeah hi Mr. Gerrard, it's Ane Alonso’s dad.”

 

Yeah, Stevie thinks, I am aware of whose father you are, but sure, we can play this game. “Oh, right. Hey.”

 

“Sorry to call, I uh, but couldn't find out anywhere on the school website…”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Do you know if the after school care program is open til eight tonight?” Xabi places a third of his metaphorical eggs in this basket.

 

“Oh,” Stevie says, “Uh no, it's not, it closes at six thirty on Fridays.”

 

He hears: _“Frick,”_ followed by a tired sigh at the other end of the line. “Okay," Xabi says, quickly catching the eggs before that basket breaks. "Thanks for that-- I've got to—”

 

“Wait, uh, I can give you the number of the school office and not my number... if um, that... if that's what will work better for you?" Because, you could barely look at me the other night and I don't think you would have come to the follow up if there weren't other parents so it's probably best that...

 

"Oh, yeah... uh, that would be good, but I'm in a bit of a rush maybe--- uh, I'll get it another day?" No, he thinks, get it now so you'll never have to speak to him again, that will make this year go a little smoother. A banana destined for Jon's lunchbox hits the floor with a splat, and with a sigh, he puts it in his own. "I--"

 

"What's... wrong?"

 

_Do not ask, Xabi thinks. Everything is wrong._

 

 _“Ah,”_ He is now well aware that he sounds as though he's in physical pain. “I’ve got a work conference tonight and my parents are away."

 

"Huh." Says Stevie, kind of wondering what pyjama pants Xabi is wearing.

 

"And tonight is the Reina's date night and my babysitter is sick, so I'm just-- my neighbours are old and they'd be okay handling one kid but three is a bit of a handful and, well, my three are a freaking nightmare for anyone so." Nice work, you idiot, tell him your life story, because it's not as though Mr. Gerrard has lesson plans to be preparing or something. Great job, Xabi thinks, do more damage the education of your children. "Shit, I'm sorry-- I've got to go, got to work something out.”

 

Stevie scrolls down his final edit of this month's school newsletter. “I could watch them, if... if you can't find anyone else, I don't mind.”

 

“What?” Is the weary echo down the line. “You...”

 

“I can... I can handle kids.”

 

Xabi laughs softly. Fuck everything, he thinks. Thank god he's already given up on today's mission.

 

" _Hey,_ " Is the petulant noise that he hears next. "My track record for handling your kids isn't too bad either. I mean, if you were okay with it... "

 

 _No I am not okay with it._ “You'd be willing to—?”

 

“Yeah. I wouldn't have offered if— I wasn't fucking you around.”

 

“I don't know when I'd be home."

 

“Are we allowed to eat pizza?"

 

Ugh, Xabi thinks. I'm going to have to pre-tip the delivery boy.

 

"Because, if we're allowed to eat pizza, I'll manage for as long as necessary.”

 

“You're sure?”

 

“Yeah," Then maybe I'll get a chance to explain, Stevie reasons. He clicks to publish the newsletter. "I didn't drive to work, so should I walk home with Ane and Jon?”

 

 _Oh_ , Xabi wants to stab something again when he's confronted with the picture of Mr. Gerrard on a bicycle. “Uh, yeah, but Emma's at playgroup so they'll swing by there.”

 

“Cool,” Stevie replies, unperturbed. “Is football training on? Or ballet tonight? Ane mentioned she was doing art lessons.”

 

 _Stop it,_ Xabi thinks. “She is.” He says. “There's nothing on tonight, but usually we do something fun, so they might be a little-- Well, I mean, Jon won't be upset, he'll be relieved, but—”

 

Stevie actually laughs at him.

 

 _“Shut up,"_ Xabi says. Followed by: "Oh shit. I didn't mean to--"

 

“It's fine. I shouldn't have laughed. I've nothing else to be doing tonight so I'll work something out."

 

Well, Xabi thinks, you have _someone_ to be doing, so surely that counts?

 

* * *

 

 

When he opens the door at about 10pm, he can hear soft conversation coming from the lounge room. He headsinto the lounge room and realises that Mr. Gerrard lied. He is not good at handling the Alonso children. Slightly more than half of the room has been transformed into a pillow fort that converges into one of the corners and is angled perfectly for the TV.

 

Christ.

 

_(Imagine a combination of these:)_

  
  
The absence of Pablo, belly up, at his feet, welcoming his master home with a destructively waggy tail suggests that the hound has infiltrated the castle as well. A gap in the pillows covered hastily by one of the beach towels emits a calm glow from the television. A _calm_ glow that he may not have seen in this house before.

 

Nothing is _calm_ in this home, he thinks.

 

He nears the fort and can hear the quiet mutterings of his son _(who is apparently suddenly not too cool for hanging out with his sisters in a pillow fort?)_ talking to Mr. Gerrard.

 

“But do you think I should give her the cupcake before, or after I ask?” Xabi narrows his eyes. _Why are they talking about pastries?_

 

“I guess that depends on what you’re going to ask, yeah?”

 

“Mmmh.” Says Jon, with his mouth obviously full. _Manners? Xabi thinks. Where have you left them. Probably in the preteen years, he decides, because I still have a non-consented to hole in my earlobe._ “Is it weird if I tell her that I think I like her before I ask her out?”

 

 _What the hell. Are you… talking about… girls…?_ _Girls? But you've never shown any interest in... anyone before. You've never..._

 

“I guess if I was you, I’d maybe tell her that you think you like her, so that she knows what you mean, before you ask if she wants to hang out…”

 

 _Ah,_ Xabi thinks as the knife of betrayal stabs him. _You're getting girl advice from a cool teacher as opposed to your father. That's fine. That... is... fine._

 

“Where does the cupcake come in?”

 

“Well, I think even if she says no, you give her the cupcake then, because, you like her, right?”

 

Jon coughs slightly, Xabi just knows he’s blushing. “Yeah.”

 

“So, you give her the cupcake regardless of what she replies, because the cupcake is for her because you like her, not because you think she has to go on a date with you… does that make sense?”

 

“Yeah.” Silence for a little. “Yeah, she likes strawberry cupcakes, so I thought it would be nice if I…”

 

“It will be, kid. It’s a really nice idea.”

 

Xabi decides that he has to interrupt now or else—well, he doesn’t know what else, but he feels as though he’s intruding on his own son’s private life, so. “Hey,” he groans, sticking his head in to the entrance of the fort. And holy shit. “Oh my god how much pizza did you order?”

 

The ratio of pizza to children is phenomenal.

 

“Oh,” Mr. Gerrard says sheepishly, his back is up against the far corner with Pablo on his lap, and on top of Pablo, another pizza box. “I didn’t know how much children ate… so.”

 

Jon smirks up at his father. “So he pretty much bought the whole shop. The delivery guy actually had to do two trips from the car.”

 

“Christ.” Xabi says, sitting down at the arch, pulling off his tie and loosening an extra button. Both his girls are curled up on the other side of the fort, fast asleep. Big Hero 6 is nearing its climax. He grabs a slice off Jon.

  
_"Pa,"_ Says Jon, having totally reverted back to his snarky, teenage self. "You've got to actually come inside. We spent hours building this." The entire sentence is punctuated with an eyeroll.

 

Xabi raises an eyebrow. _"You_ participated?"

 

"Well, _yeah_. Ane was in charge, but we all helped."

 

Sighing, Xabi crawls in slightly further. It is so _cozy_. Emma curls towards him in her sleepy state rest her head on his thigh. He decides that once he drags Pablo off Stevie and sends the teacher on his way, he's going to totally fall asleep in this pillow heaven.

 

It's allowed.

 

Single parents are allowed to do things like that, okay? He reasons, hoping to god that no one will ever see him.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for this." He says having ushered Stevie out the door. "I don’t know what I would have done, god forbid I leave Jon in charge.”

 

“He’s really not that bad. I mean, you know that though, don’t you? Surely you were in charge of his little replacement axolotl stunt?”

 

Xabi shrugs, kind of just wants to go eat a bit more pizza and crash inside. “Thanks for looking after them,” he says. “You did a good job.” He wants to add, 'apart from ruining my loungeroom', but decides that given that he intends to sleep there tonight, it would be a little unfair.

 

“Three is easier than thirty.” Mr. Gerrard says, ducking his head.

 

Xabi chuckles a little. Feels immediately guilty for it. Feels immediately a little dirty. "You certainly fed thirty," he pulls forty bucks out of his wallet. "Here."

 

"No-- I can't take that."

 

"Yeah." Xabi shoves it in his hand. "You can. Now let me go nap."

 

It is when Stevie, on the welcome mat, leans in to kiss his cheek, however, that Xabi recoils. “No,” he says, his palms now a buffer. “What are you—”

 

“Uh,” Stevie mumbles, “N-nothing, sorry, I just thought—”

 

“N-no. Look, I appreciate tonight. But I'm not _that_ guy.”

 

“W-what guy?”

 

Xabi glares. “If I had realised how serious you were with Tim I never would have—” He sighs. “Goodnight, Stevie.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

The door is shut in his face.

 

He ducks his head, softly sighs, whispers: “… not married.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xabi gets the flu, and a fever, and is just generally a mess. His mum's name is Isabel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe I've been struggling because we've been missing a conversation.

“I’m in love with him, mama.”

 

Isabel stares down at Xabi. She’s spent the past hour feeding, bathing, and tucking in his daughters. Now, she has moved on to her son, who is curled up on the couch, wrapped in blankets and hugging a hot water bottle to his chest. It’s Day 2 of the flu season and he has been immediately struck down.

 

Jon thought it was wonderful. He could buy his own lunch, play video games, and it was all generally enjoyable, until he and his sisters returned to a quiet home and a sniffly, somewhat delirious father. Calling his grandma was probably for the best, but it also ruled out the possibility of getting an upper ear piercing.

 

Which, he can’t really decide whether showing a feverish father would be better than last time, but he imagines so. The eyebrow was a bit of a nightmare, so he's already ruled out rushing into the next one.

 

_“What is that,” Xabi had said._

 

_“Hola Papa,” he had replied._

 

_“Jontxu. What is on your face?” asked his father, looking up from making Pablo’s dinner._

 

_The next fifteen minutes went as follows:_

 

  1. _Pablo was fed an unfinished dinner. (where are the steamed carrots, Pablo thought, what the hell is this)_
  2. _Jon received a 7 ½ minute lecture._
  3. _Xabi took a bag of peas from the freezer, wrapped them in a tea towel and pressed them softly to his teenage son’s brow. “It’s okay.”_
  4. _Jon pretended that he was overreacting.  
_
  5. _Xabi excused himself._
  6. _Jon went to fetch his trigonometry homework._
  7. _Heard his father sobbing in the bathroom._
  8. _Vowed to never get another piercing._



 

She sits beside him on the couch. “With _him?”_ She asks, pressing her palm to his forehead, and god, his head is on fire.

 

“I know,” Xabi whimpers. “I'm pathetic.”

 

“Hijo,” she scolds, gentling his jaw with her hand. “Aren’t you going to tell me about him?” Because you are certainly not pathetic, and who is this man?

 

His breathing quickens a little, and he does his best to shake his head. Both are weak actions. “Can’t.”

 

_“Niño,”_

 

“He’s so sweet,” Xabi says, clutching tighter at the hot water bottle. Letting his mum run her fingers through his hair. “Mama, he’s so sweet, and the kids. He is good with kids.”

 

She smiles down at him. If that’s the number one item on the dating checklist, well, she thinks, I guess you're not a teenager anymore.

 

Xabi’s head falls back a little though, bumps against a pillow, a realisation maybe having struck him. He lets out a wheezy sigh, is glad that none of the children are around to mock him for sounding like the sad penguin from Toy Story. Pablo snuggles into his lap, tries to lick him. “Hot.”

 

“Is he?”

 

“M-me.” Xabi mumbles, eyes flickering about the room. “Hot, need…”

 

His mum presses a wet washcloth to his cheeks, “You’re okay.”

 

“…’m not.”

 

“Xabi, _dime_.” She says. “Want me to take your blanket off?”

 

He shakes his head, and they stay like this until he’s on the verge of sleep.

 

For the first time in days, something floats through his mind that isn't completely useless, but... _christ_. “He’s married.” He whispers.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes to Pablo snoring, and clattering from the kitchen.

 

Jon’s making everyone pancakes from some sort of ridiculous shake-it-and-pour kit.

 

Xabi doesn’t remember the night before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> His mum, /does/.


	19. “Uh, your mum invited me for dinner?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out what Mrs. Alonso asked Mr. Gerrard after the nightmare of a  
> parent/teacher night.
> 
> PABLO RETURNS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so dinner is going to be across different chapters

 

Pablo spots him from the upstairs window. A cyclist, he snarls, the _enemy_. The bike draws closer, and Pablo sniffs out of the window. Then, ears trembling and tail beginning to twitch, he bolts out of the room.

 

"Hijo, will you get the door?" Periko asks, barely glancing up from frying his fish.

 

"What?” Xabi frowns, peering into the backyard. All Reina’s are present and accounted for, so. “Dad, who is at the door?" Xabi calls out, flicking a tea towel over his shoulder, tripping over Jon’s skateboard, stumbling to open it and— “Stevie,” he coughs, still gripping the door frame. This is my parents' house, what are you doing here?

 

Mr. Gerrard is a little flushed when he smiles dorkily, waves with a bottle of wine, and says: “hi,”. None of which manage to distract Xabi from his shirt. And the neckline. And the way it brings out his eyes. And— no, just do that button up, please.

 

Pablo tries to push through, his tail wagging furiously, but Xabi is stood completely in the way. _(right, Pablo thinks, because that isn’t petty at all)_

 

“Uh, your mum invited me for dinner?” Stevie rocks on the balls of his feet nervously, his other hand clutching a plastic bag of brightly coloured soft drinks.

 

Xabi cringes, because those are not coming in this house. "That doesn’t surprise me," he says, not stepping aside. “But you have better things to be doing on a Friday night, surely." He raises an eyebrow and decisively puts his foot between Pablo and Stevie.

 

Pablo whines pitifully. _(what the hell, he thinks, this is the most contact you’ve had with me in days and it is your foot)_

 

"Oh." Stevie replies, looking over his shoulder and out to the street behind him. He racks his brain, surely there's something... well, I could watch football dvds, or... mark homework... or take the puppy to the beach... or spend a few hours baking. I'm not sure any of those things count as _better_ though. "Should I go?" He mumbles more to himself than anything else, now focusing on his shoes. Maybe a peace offering would— he holds out the bottle of wine. Xabi makes a face at the vintage, a pretty clear message, as far as Stevie’s concerned. "Right... Okay. Here, I'll go..."

 

_(i am embarrassed on both of our behalves, Pablo thinks, ignore him and pat me.)_

 

Xabi grasps the bottle of wine. Watches as Stevie steps back and grabs the bicycle helmet that he'd only just abandoned on the veranda. Sighs: _“Wait.”_

 

_(i am going to go fetch you my favourite toy, Pablo thinks, _then you have to stay_ )_

 

"No, it's fine. I didn't realise... she said..." Well, I guess she didn't mention anything, which explains why you look as though you're about to have an aneurysm. Stevie runs a hand through his hair and puts the helmet back on. "It doesn't matter. Sorry about the wine. I had no idea— I don't drink it... Oh, and here, fizzy drink… for…”

 

"Kitchen is to the left." Xabi murmurs painfully quiet, and offering the bottle back.

 

"What?" Stevie distractedly fumbles with the latch of his helmet.

 

Xabi shrugs. "You're here, I won't send you away..."

 

"N-no I don't want to intrude, I—"

 

Xabi stands, thrusts the bottle back into his chest. "Kitchen is to the left." He repeats, stepping aside.

 

Stevie walks inside and Xabi takes a deep breath, and then another one. He's pretty sure that he hasn't recovered from last week.

 

He waits ten seconds and then shuts the door to his parent’s house. Bangs his head against it a few times for good measure, the neckline of that blue shirt burnt into his retinas. He looks down at his own raggedy t-shirt, wonders if he should go change or stay like this in a wretched attempt to make Stevie feel overdressed.

 

"Look, I’ll go. It's no big deal." Is the voice from behind him.

 

"I have to go get changed." Whispers Xabi, turning back around, ignoring the way that Stevie’s eyes run over him.

 

“You look fin—” Xabi glares at the floor, thinks, _do not_. Stevie realises though, and doesn't even finish the sentence. "Is that the shirt that..." Are the next quiet words from his mouth.

 

"No, it’s not." Xabi says as though this something that can be debated and goes walk upstairs to burn said t-shirt, or maybe hug it to his chest. He turns when he feels a tug on his sleeve.

 

Stevie smiles weakly. “If this is not okay with you or the kids, you have to say so.”

 

With a sigh, Xabi shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

 

“I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable,”

 

Christ, stop being so goddamn _earnes_ t. “You’re n—”

 

Pablo bounds back into the room, carrying a squeaky toy, lands on Stevie’s feet and rolls over. Stevie squats down. “Hey there buddy.”

 

_(you have returned, Pablo thinks, pat me)_

 

Stevie scruffs at Pablo’s underside and the dog squirms gleefully, his tail thumping enthusiastically. Xabi looks distraught. “You’ve got to say so.” Stevie says again. “I’ll just drop off the wine and you can tell everyone that something came up and I couldn’t stay.”

 

_(oh, by the way, Pablo thinks, have you told anyone about master’s pathetic pyjamas? he still wears them, you know)_

 

“Stevie, I…”

 

“Mate, I can’t read you. So, just... say so.”

 

“I—” Xabi starts, before Emma, hugging as many pieces of a marble run as possible, tries to toddle past them both, trips over one of Pablo’s splayed legs.

 

The plastic pieces scatter, and she lands face first on Pablo. They braces for tears, but she shuffles up a little and focuses on Stevie. “Hallo,” she holds out a tiny hand.

 

Stevie smiles brightly. “Hi there, little one.”

 

“…’m Emma.” She mumbles as Stevie shakes her hand softly.

 

Stevie nods, all attention diverted to her now. “I’m Stevie. I came over a few weeks ago and we made a pillow castle, do you remember?”

 

Emma narrows her eyes, then reaches up a little more and pokes Stevie in the nose. “Yes!” She giggles brightly. Stevie melts. _Oh god_ , he thinks as she starts to gather up the pieces, maybe I should be teaching kindergarten. “Come build maze.” She tugs on his arm, and squishes Pablo’s tummy. “Pablo, you come too.” Xabi stares down at them, feels something awful beginning to form in the pit of his own stomach. Emma stands up and points at him. “Papa, you are all red!”

 

_(i agree, Pablo thinks, you are a wreck)_

 

Xabi kisses her hair as a distraction, “Am not.” and determinedly avoids Stevie’s gaze.

 

Stevie, while being pulled into the lounge room spins back to face him. “I—”

 

“I guess you're staying." Xabi says to no one, left alone in the hallway with wine, five bottles of soft drink and his raggedy t-shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how many reina's are there in this AU?
> 
> and who does pepe embarrass more during the dinner table conversation his  
> childhood friend xabier or 5-a-side futbol buddy esteban?


	20. “Probably best not to perve on Ane’s teacher.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dinner gets better???? worse???? who knows??? not me

 

“Mama...” Xabi starts casually. He’s timed this so that it shouldn’t be overly suspicious. “Why has Ane’s teacher come for dinner?” He asks, eyes trained on the avocado he is slicing.

 

“He’s very handsome, we need more handsome at the dinner table.”

 

The knife slips, lodges itself in Xabi’s finger. He's not _that_ good looking he thinks bitterly, then bites his bottom lip, and runs his bloody digit it under the tap and tries again. “Why did you invite the kids’ teacher?”

 

Isabel looks at him. Xabi shrinks. “It is important to have a good point of contact at the school, especially after the record Jon left.”

 

“Ane’s not going to be causing trouble.”

 

“Having support at the school is necessary for everyone, and you were a mess at the interview.” Is the completely unsympathetic response that he's met with.

 

“I was sick.”

 

“You were _not_.”

 

Well. As far as he’s concerned, crawling up to cry in his old bedroom seems like a pretty good option right now. Nobody needs the avocado salad anyway.

 

“Were you talking about him?” His mum murmurs, more to herself than anyone.

 

“When the f—“ he blurts out, before managing to stifle himself with the press of teeth against tongue.

 

His mum simply waves her hand dismissively. “When you were ill. You said something—”

 

Xabi’s eyes widen. “I said _, what_.” He demands.

 

Isabel shrugs, makes a point of looking over her shoulder, to where Stevie is building the marble maze with Emma whilst the two youngest Reina’s play with cars on his back. Then says absentmindedly: “Hijo, not much.”, but it’s too late, really.

 

“Oh god.” Xabi utters, horrified, unable to tear himself away from watching Emma and Stevie, _marbles are a choking hazard_ , he tries to tell himself. “I wasn’t— talking about him.” He ducks his head. “I’m going to go check on the barbeque.”

 

* * *

 

Later, there’s a soft touch at his elbow, and a: “Hey, I wanted to apologise for the other night?”

 

Xabi glances behind him. _“What?”_ He manages, and it's weak at best. _  
_

 

Stevie swallows down a mouthful of something red and fizzy. The dad inside Xabi is already fearful of the sugar high. He should really try and water down the next cup. “I was just— I was trying to say goodnight. I messed up, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

 

Xabi tenses his fingers and they tighten around the hem of his own shirt, anxiously. He feels uncomfortable _now_. Feels. _Things._

 

But Stevie continues despite all of the terrible feelings coursing through Xabi's body. “I mean, all my friends reckon I’m an unnecessarily kissy guy, and, I need to say sorry, yeah? I wasn’t trying to hit on you,” He’s suddenly a little flushed. Why are you flushed, Xabi thinks. Look at me, you idiot. Use your eyes, I am not enjoying this conversation. “I mean, not that I don’t want to, because— I do, obviously, I just… I wasn’t… at that point in time. Uh…” He pinches at the bridge of his nose, “Maybe just, ignore all of that?”

 

The word ‘ _obviously’_ is the only thing bouncing about Xabi’s head now, so he nods and says: “Oh.” Then stares at Stevie’s cheeks and, _god._ He has determined, right here and now, that there is a causational link between the volume of soft drink and the colour of Stevie’s face and that the fizzy stuff is entirely to blame for the glossy redness of his mouth. “Um,” he follows it up, because he can’t really manage much else and Stevie is licking his lips and:

 

“Yeah, I just wanted to let you know that I wasn’t trying anything and I certainly wasn’t making you that guy, especially because I’m n—”

 

“It’s fine,” Xabi mutters, cutting him off, because his fingers are cramping a little bit, and christ he has got to get that under control, and he really doesn’t need to hear this go on or look at Mr. Gerrard’s mouth for any longer. He smooths his palms against his shirt but they’re still all clammy and useless for anything but shaky movements, it’s all very embarrassing really. He shoves them in his pockets, and Stevie gets the message.

  
“Okay,” he smiles, “Sorry again.” He says, pressing his own hand against Xabi’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean to make things worse.”

 

“N-no— I… ”

 

“I’m going to go and see if Pepe needs help with the barbeque again, and you look like you could do with another drink.”

 

Yes, Xabi thinks. Another drink, or twelve. Maybe shots. Shots would be ideal. He smiles weakly.

 

* * *

 

Warm with his third (fourth?) beer buzzing in his head, Xabi’s— well, he’s staring. And you see, he can’t really be blamed for it, he reasons. Because, it’s just that—

 

Stevie’s on the swing set in the backyard now, cradling the youngest Reina, Marta in his arms, close to his chest. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and cooing softly enough that she’s nodding off to sleep again.

 

Stevie wasn’t really to blame for Thiago and Ane colliding with the pram, but any chance to bond with a baby, he’ll take. The swings just happen to be the quietest place on the property, so Mr. Gerrard finds himself chatting to Thiago about 7th Grade Mathematics and rocking the boy’s little sister to sleep. And he’s decided that this is a much better way to spend a Friday night than cooking meals for two and then feeding one of them to Carra, who is never particularly interested in anything more than dog food. He feels a little guilty, but he’ll definitely be home by 9pm, so he’s hoping she won’t be too antsy… or angry.

 

Xabi inhales sharply at the sight. He’s never felt any urge to have more than three children, and here he is, steadfastly reassuring himself that he’s doing a pretty good job of not going upstairs to drink liquor. That, or going back to reading his own Biology textbook from when he was 16 about how two men can’t have a baby anyway, and especially not when one of them is married.

 

Christ, his _arms_ , Xabi’s pretty sure those must be illegal on a teacher, and he’s 100% sure that fantasising about having a teacher that looked like that when he was in high school is the most inappropriate thought he’s had in years.

 

“Probably best not to perve on Ane’s teacher.”

 

Oh.

 

_Shit._

 

Xabi’s ears go pink. “I… was… not… doing that.”

 

Yolanda pats his hair, and replies with: “ahuh.”

 

“He’s cute,” she responds thoughtfully. “And good with kids.” Yes. Xabi thinks. Very good with kids. Why is that allowed. Who let that happen. Who let him be so good with your kids. And my kids especially. And— “Shame he’s off limits, hey.”

 

Yes.

 

Yes who let him be so good with kids when he is off limits. Xabi realises belatedly that his face is obviously embarrassing him, because Yolanda deems the conversation worthy of continuing. “Educational outcomes, and all,” she winks.

 

Of course, Xabi thinks.

 

* * *

 

When Mr. Gerrard returns Marta to her mama, Xabi’s hardly expecting the guy to just stand beside him awkwardly, and but here they are. Staring at nothing, in silence. Say something you idiot, his brain yells.

 

"How's Tim?" Xabi starts, each of the three syllabus getting progressively quieter as he realises what he’s just asked.

 

"What,"

 

Are you really going to make me say it again, he'd prefer to ask. "How is... Tim?" He repeats, eyes drawn to the patchy grass.

 

"Um, I... Don't know?" mumbles Mr. Gerrard, his brow furrowed a little. "I'm not married?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this a cliffhanger.  
> maybe.


	21. “I just got my bread out of the oven,”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xabi stares at his loaf, barely anyone has had any. It's an outrage.

“You’re not married to him?”

 

“I’m not married to anyone.” Stevie hisses, glances around impatiently.

 

“What?” Xabi looks at him helplessly.

 

“I wouldn’t be here if I were married. I have been trying to tell you."

 

“Oh.” Xabi says, voice hoarse and veins thrumming.

 

“Okay?” Stevie grins, a little incredulous but altogether glad that the message got through. “Not married.”

 

Xabi nods, bites his lip. “Okay.” Thinks: now what? Thinks: stop rocking back and forth on your heels you adorable piece of shit.

 

"So I suppose it's probably dinner time or something?"

 

"Yeah," Xabi puts his hands in his pockets. "The or something." The or something that involves alcohol. The or something that— he's forgotten to breathe, but smiles at Stevie anyway.

 

* * *

 

The magnets clatter when Xabi’s forehead bumps against the freezer door and he clutches desperately at his homemade bread. “Jon what the hell are—”

 

“I don’t know why you let your kid throw you up against the fridge, but I’m not Jon.”

 

Despite being pressed flat up against the cool metal, Xabi manages to take a shallow breath and tighten his grip on his herb loaf. “S-Stevie,” he chokes out, “I just got my bread out of the oven, and I—” have spent all day letting it rise and swear to god if you make me drop it…

 

“You don’t let Jon shove you up here, do you?”

 

“This is not my fridge,” Xabi deflects, shrugging off the hot palm pressed between his shoulder blades before spinning around and— oh, Stevie’s a little closer (way too fucking close) than he had expected, his eyes a little brighter than before.

 

He’s smirking knowingly too, so Xabi decides that he’ll have to go to the gym a bit more often, do a few more chin ups, and stop letting Jon crash tackle him onto the sofa.

 

He sets his jaw squarer. “Is there…” Takes another breath. “… something that you needed?”

 

Stevie on the other hand, takes a step back. “Yeah, I just came to carry your dad’s fish and mum’s salad into the dining room.” He grins cheekily.

 

 _Sonofabitch,_ Xabi thinks. He cocks an eyebrow. Watches him pick up the two dishes.

 

“Oh,” Stevie pauses before backtracking, and pushing his mouth against Xabi’s.

 

Xabi opens his mouth, because it has been three fucking years. Sue him.

 

Noses squished, their teeth clash. Stevie pulls away, coughs: “also, that.”, and walks out of the kitchen.

 

Xabi hugs his bread to his chest.

 

* * *

 

As far as Xabi's concerned, dinner turns into a mess when three decisive moments culminate.

 

“ _And then_ they gave me after school detentions for a week and banned me from the cafeteria." Jon grins proudly, receiving a high five from Pepe.

 

Stevie looks concerned, and consequently, tentatively glances across the table to where Jon’s dad (also looking concerned) is pushing his green beans up against the fish in an attempt to make it marginally more palatable, or perhaps, himself somewhat less culpable. Xabi nervously diverts his attention back to his plate after Stevie catches his eye for a second. But it’s enough permission, really.

 

“You got to be careful though, lad.” Stevie starts. “They keep a record of this stuff in high school, yeah?”

 

Jon stares Stevie, whose brow is wrinkled anxiously. “Alright.” He sighs. "I won't do it again." Xabi splutters, having forgotten that he was in the middle of chewing. Splutters and looks at Stevie, with, perhaps all the jealousy in the world _._ (What the fuck. How did you even get him to agree to that?) His mother smirks proudly at Xabi, who continues to choke on a crouton from salad number three and, realises _that please to talk to him about eyebrow piercings_ might just be the last thing he ever thinks.

 

Periko thumps him on the back, far too hard. Xabi realises that his dad is also impressed. God. Who let Stevie woo his entire family? His whole family, and Pepe’s wife apparently.

 

"Do you want to give your pep talk to our kids, Stevie?" She presses her thumb to his cheek affectionately. "There's another four that might be in your class.”

 

He laughs, "Christ you guys, when are you going to stop?"

 

"Hombre," Pepe chuckles. "She can't help it, I'm irresistible!"

 

Stevie rolls his eyes. "I age at double the speed when I teach your offspring."

 

“They keep you on your toes, hey?”

 

The second example of a mess happens just after Xabi coughs, mutters under his breath: _“Your kids are a nightmare.”_

 

Periko and Isabel both stop eating and the conversation falls flat. They smirk at each other, before turning back to face their son. “ _Their_ kids are a nightmare, hijo?”

 

“You were not only a traumatising niño, but a rebellious teenager.”

 

“Mama _no_.”

 

Stevie perks up a little, and Jon grins at him. “Tell Mr. Gerrard, ma!”

 

* * *

 

It’s a pretty nice picture, if Stevie’s honest. Xabi at 17, running away from Advanced Mathematics Tutoring Camp to (backpack around) Europe, and lugging little more than a dozen sketchpads and an inordinate amount of flannel shirts.

 

Jon, who must have heard the story half a dozen times doesn’t last long, but for Stevie, the realisation that the bloke is (and always has been) a massive nerd is, well, it’s nice. At least, it is until Pepe pipes up.

 

“Stevie’s a loser too.” He states. “See, his last boyfriend wouldn't let him mark in bed, is that right?" Stevie shrugs. "So this hijo de puta, would bring his grading to our five-a-side training."

 

"Multitalented, Pepe. That's me."

 

Pepe cackles. "Give it a break cabrón, what was it that the one before him dumped you over?"

 

Stevie drops his fork and it clatters on his plate. "We weren't going out." He says quietly.

 

"You got dumped anyway, hey."

 

"Shut up, mate."

 

"Stevie, you rocked up at our place in tears."

 

Stevie glares at him.

 

Yolanda elbows her husband in the ribs. “He is allowed to cry.”

 

"Xabier, take a stab, guess what our kids' perfect teacher got dumped over?" Xabi, who has managed to almost completely block out the last few minutes of conversation, doesn't look up. Pepe kicks him in the shin. "Alonso, this guy is sacrificing his sex life for his job, the least you could do is back me up here. He should stop marking in bed, no?"

 

Xabi stares at his loaf, barely anyone has had any. It's an _outrage_. "He can mark wherever he wants, Pep."

 

"Oh come on," Pepe punches his shoulder. "Tell him, no one wants to screw someone who grades Ethiopian giraffe dioramas in the bedroom."

 

Xabi looks up at Stevie and fuck, he’s kind of flushed, and his face is a little sad, and there's a slice of herb bread on his plate and _oh god_. Xabi swallows and shakes his head at Pepe. Pepe, who decides that now is a great opportunity to look between them, suspiciously. "Hombre… tell him.”

 

“No.” Xabi mumbles petulantly. “What kind of bastard…” he takes a deep breath. Don’t give anything away you fuckhead, he thinks. Don’t ruin the entire meal. “People don’t care.”

 

Pepe swings his head around to look at Stevie, narrows his eyes and _oh_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THOUGHTS? hit me up.
> 
> mr. gerrard was the only one who had some of jon's dad's herb bread, so that's always a step in the right direction, no?
> 
> we're back onto collaborative fic writing because i swear to god it takes me three  
> weeks longer than necessary when i'm not writing your superior ideas, amigos. your ideas. give them to me. OTHERWISE YOU'LL BE WAITING MONTHS. 
> 
> months, followed by a tragic ending


	22. “I love you.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> old chapter 22/23 are gone. this is here instead. political watch discussion and ANGST.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this just follows on from the dinner thing ok]

Xabi is standing in the middle of his parents' kitchen. He smiles when he sees Stevie walk in and Stevie’s heart does a pathetic flip. Even his "Hey.” is far too fond for Stevie to really comprehend.

 

_"Hey,"_

 

As soon as Stevie has said it, Xabi's forehead creases, and he should really be worried if it wasn't for the immediate vocalisation of Xabi's concerns. Dessert logistics. “Should I put the cream in the middle of the plate, or on the side away from the pie, or on top of it, or should I take it out in a bowl and let everyone doing what they want?" 

 

"I'm in love with you." Stevie blurts out all at once. 

 

Xabi freezes, hands filled with a bowl and a dozen spoons. "What,"

 

Smiling, Stevie ducks his head, repeats slowly, softly: “I love you.”

 

The spoons clatter, fly in all degrees from the point Xabi dropped them and the entire bowl on the floor at. Oh god, Stevie thinks. Oh god you fucking idiot, he doesn’t---

 

Xabi stares at him, wide eyed, and says absolutely nothing.

 

Pablo bolts in, tail thumping enthusiastically and starts licking at the floorboards.

 

Stevie swallows. “I’ve got to… tell your mum thanks for dinner, I…”

 

He leaves his coat and bolts outside, grabs his bike and heads off.

 

* * *

 

When he gets home himself, Xabi calls him three times that night. Sends half a dozen texts, that start off as:

 

_[can you pick up]_

_[we need to talk]_

_[it’s good news]_

 

And then, a little later, with a painful amount of desperateness and altogether too much guilt for one human to possibly be capable of handling:

 

_[i didn’t mean to leave you hanging like that.]_

_[i feel the same way.]_

_[i love you. just call me when you get this, yeah?]_

* * *

He wakes, after a few hours sleep, to quiet knocking on the door at about 5am.  _He read them_ , Xabi thinks. Padding quietly down the stairs, he tugs on an abandoned flannelette shirt and smushes his hair flat. He takes a deep breath and opens the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a few hours time the second part of this will be up. I'd apologise for the size of this but there is just a layout thing I'm trying to fix. 
> 
> AS IT TURNS OUT THE WATCH POLITICS ARE IN THAT SECTION.


	23. "This is Carra,"

He wakes after a couple of hours sleep to knocking on the door. It's about 5am. _He read them_ , Xabi thinks. Padding quietly down the stairs, he tugs on an abandoned flannelette shirt and smushes his hair flat. He takes a deep breath and opens the door.

 

Mr. Gerrard is clutching a very ugly looking dog and a case of muffins. He smiles shyly, tiny little dimples marking his face and Xabi realises that he looks as though he hasn’t slept much either.

 

"This is Carra," Stevie murmurs, placing the ugly dog on the ground. "She's not happy that I woke her up at 4am." The ugly dog glares up at Xabi. Xabi glares back. He forgot about this puppy clause, but he's positive the kids are going to love the little shit. Stevie is biting his lip when Xabi looks back up at him again. "I, um, I got your texts." He mumbles, distracted at the sight of Xabi this early in the morning, distracted by the implications and possibilities and distracted by the whole thing, really. This whole man in front of him.

 

A red and beige flannelette shirt has been hastily shrugged on, but the sleeve has been caught on a left elbow, and it also currently covers absolutely none of Xabi’s chest or belly. Bared are his wristwatch and stomach. [Golden](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/BDq35LUCQAA4w5o.jpg), the watch catches the flickering light of the porch, and shimmers dutifully, but it’s nothing compared to the bloke’s stomach. Stevie doesn’t remember ever thinking that Xabi was anything less than fit, but he also doesn’t remember the coarse hair gracing a completely ripped abdomen or hipbones that he’d cut himself on. He's also only wearing boxers which— ahem.

 

Xabi coughs a little, to excuse them both. The neighbours don't need to see him half naked nor Stevie on his knees. He opens the door a bit wider, and smiles shyly. “Mr. Gerrard,” he says, hoarse with sleep and something else that Stevie can’t quite recognise. “Would you like to come in?”

 

Stevie nods, but hesitates. “Ane’s going to have to change classes.” He blurts out. “When I spoke… I wasn’t thinking and I let my big mouth—”

 

“Have you changed your mind?” Xabi asks, wringing his hands. He is long past blaming him for such.

 

“No.” He says, followed by a breathy inhale. "We need to talk though, mate. I... we need to... I have..." Stevie lets his words tumble out and then slowly run off. 

 

"In the morning?" Xabi yawns (adorable enough to melt the residual hesitance Stevie has been carrying). "Muffins on the bench, and come up to bed." He says letting Stevie shuffle inside and making his own way up the stairs.

 

Stevie sets his muffins down on the kitchen counter, and convinces Carra to take a very short nap on the couch and that he’ll be back _very_ soon and that she’s _not_ being abandoned and _please_ don’t interrupt, just for a few minutes, puppy.

 

He opens his wallet and slips out a note, words scrawled halfheartedly, a mess of crossed out lines and vague sentences that tend not to go anywhere much but— he probably needs to clarify his intentions, he reasons.

_Xabi,_

_I ~~was wondering if you’d~~ — ~~what days are you free— do the kids have weekend activities...~~ So the zoo has a special penguin exhibit on this month, and Jon likes penguins ( ~~well he did a few years ago)~~ and I was ~~hoping~~ ~~wondering~~ thinking, um. Maybe you should take him?_

_If you want to, I could show your girls the red pandas there, because everyone likes red pandas. right? or you could just take all of them. I could look after Pablo because he seems to like me and dogs get lonely, remember?_

_Okay. uh... cool._

_stevie (mr. gerrard) ~~(forfuckssakesteven whatthefuck)~~_

 

* * *

 

Stevie stands just inside the door to Xabi’s bedroom with his hands in his pockets.

 

Xabi’s up, facing the window, when Stevie walks in. He looks beautiful, his shoulders lightly dusted with hair and Stevie suddenly wants to take his hands out of his pockets. Wants to— take things fast.

 

“Am I sleeping here?” He asks, before almost immediately blushing. Christ. What kind of question is that?

 

“Yeah,” Xabi replies. “On the floor.” He deadpans.

 

Stevie doesn’t want to explain that he’s already spent the last two night sleeping on his own bedroom floor because his bed was covered with dioramas, covered with kid-made ancient history posters, with marking guidelines and long winding feedback and grading scores.

 

He scrubs at his face. “…’m dead tired. I’ll do it.”

 

Xabi yawns again. “Just get under the covers, will you?”

 

* * *

 

 

Stevie snuggles down under the doona, looks up at Xabi through his lashes. “…is it okay if I kiss you? He whispers.

 

Xabi nods.

 

Stevie runs his hand through Xabi’s hair tentatively. It’s so soft, and he’s allowed.

 

_He’s allowed._

 

“You going to?” Xabi murmurs back.

 

Stevie hums softly. “Eventually.” He replies, fingers threaded in Xabi’s fringe. “But, you’ve…” He trails off, looking over Xabi’s shoulders and chest, his gaze lingering fucking everywhere.

 

Nervous eyes and a frown marking his face Xabi quivers a little: “What’s wrong?” He can feel Stevie’s hand cup his jaw, can feel his fingers on his face and can feel himself blushing hopelessly. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, an apology perhaps, an: ‘on second thoughts, I don’t really want’, maybe a: 'you are not what I remembered and I'm not sure I am keen'.

 

But.

 

Stevie scoffs softly, and presses his thumb to Xabi’s temple. “You’re going grey, mate.” When he says it, he can feel the man tense beneath his touch, noticeably confused. “It’s a bit of a turn on.” He finishes, relishing how Xabi’s pulse and breathing pattern regulates at his words.

 

Stevie wraps his arms around and bear hugs him, then hears a: “ooft.” followed by a muffled: “I didn’t sign up for another teenage boy, you know.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Stevie challenges. “What did you sign up for?”

 

“You. And that ugly dog. And your muffins. An extra pair of hands for setting up tents in the rain. Someone who will cook dinner twice a week. And that I can give back rubs to if there’s ever enough hot water left for us to have a bath.”

 

“That all?”

 

Xabi tilts his head, looks at Stevie with suspicious eyes. “That’s a lot.”

 

“Not when I love you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i greatly miss this watch  


	24. "Why is there an ugly dog in th—"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the happy ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GET TO FIND OUT WHAT JON WAS IMPLYING ALL THOSE MANY CHAPTERS AGO AT THE SCHOOL GATE

They doze until seven, legs tangled in sheets, fingers threaded in hair, hearts not aching. They're lazily making out in bed when the door bursts open, so Stevie hurls himself at the floor.

 

Because it is Jon who has walked in and— "Yo Papa, why is there an ugly dog in th— oh my god. Is that _Mr. Gerrard?!"_ His voice suddenly progressing from that of regular (constantly disgruntled) teenager to that of one not using his indoor voice.

 

Stevie's cheeks go bright red from his position on the floor beside his bed, but Xabi looks straight at his son. "Yeah.” He says. Because: it _is_ Mr. Gerrard. And maybe ripping off the bandaid with this revelation is the best idea with his kid, so he's really just left hoping that Jon is not going to do anything rash or— get another piercing to rebel against this epiphany.

 

“Huh.” Jon says, and beams at the two men. “By the way, Pa, I'm heading out with Luca after the game.” He adds, walking out of the room. It’s only then, belatedly, that Stevie realises that Jon’s kitted up with second pair of football boots slung around his neck.

 

He looks distraught as he gingerly climbs back under the covers. “Did he take that well? Was he upset? I don't know what just happened. How did that go?” Because he just walked in on his dad in bed with another dude, and more importantly: _thank god_ I have clothes on.

 

Xabi smirks. “He is a teenager. Get used to it.”

 

 _“Waaaitttt a second,”_ Jon drawls, backtracking into the room again. "Does this mean I get to call him dad, now?"

 

 _Oh god_ , Stevie thinks as something in his chest thuds pathetically (determinedly), _that is not funny._

 

Xabi elbows him, but Stevie doesn’t look up from his hands. Xabi elbows him harder, right in the stomach. " _Hey,_ you in this for the long run?"

 

Stevie sits up, glares at him. "I didn't think there _was_ a casual option."

 

Xabi shrugs his head, makes an indeterminate noise, and then turns back to his son. "Yeah, you can call him dad."

 

Jon smirks, just like his father. “Oh yeah?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Hey Daddddddd, can you drive me to the game?

 

 _“Noooo,”_ Xabi whines when Stevie leaps out of bed (not hitting the floor this time) and pulls his jeans on (with far, far less of a struggle than their first morning after). _“The bed was warmmmm.”_

 

Stevie grins, leans over and peppers kisses all over Xabi’s face. “I’m going to take him to football!”

 

“Urghh you’re not allowed to _kiss_ him,” Jon grunts at the same time that Xabi rolls his eyes.

 

“He was going to ride his bike," Xabi grouses, trying again. “Nobody said you had to start being dad already.”

 

“Gotta make up for lost time,” Stevie mumbles, and Xabi knows he has already lost the fight, and that, he's maybe a little bit glad he did.

 

Jon bangs his fist against the door. “You’re not allowed to date each other if you’re going to be _gross_.”

 

Stevie pulls away obediently, but is hauled back in by his t-shirt, and Xabi mutters: “Don’t buy him lunch on the way home. We make food together on Saturdays.” Stevie nods, presses his lips to the tip of Xabi's nose, whispers:

 

_"...'m going now."_

 

“Oh my god, Mr. Gerrard,” Jon groans dramatically. “Leave him and let's go.”

 

Stevie tugs his jacket on and scruffs at Jon’s hair, making him duck his head and groan some more. “Eff off, Stevie,” he mutters, swatting his hand away, ever the teenage boy that Mr. Gerrard always knew he was going to be.

 

The last thing Xabi hears is cleats down the hallway and a muffled conversation, "So if you call me dad, I get to call you monkey, right?"

 

_"When did he even tell you that."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mr. gerrard would ideally like a little baaaabyyyy of his own to add to the fam but that's not what the final chapter is (OR IS IT?) ((no))


	25. "OUR doona,"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this isn't an indication that this chapter has been a long time coming, then I don't know what is.  
>  

"Mmh, Xabs we're out of condoms." Stevie says, vaguely looking up from his science marking.

 

Xabi refuses to pull his mouth off Stevie's neck until the bloke in questions swats at his hair.

 

"Babe, look at me, hey." Stevie starts, before Xabi grins at him. "One of us is going to have to head to the chemist."

 

Stevie is met with a whining noise. "Do we have to?"

 

"I dunno, can you get off from just sucking my neck?"

 

"Yes," Xabi says, and then, after a little consideration: "But that's not what I'm saying."

 

Stevie shuffles up a little. "Hmm?"

 

Xabi runs a hand through his own hair. "Do we have to?"

 

"Well we don't even have any grape ones left so—”

 

" _No,_ " replies Xabi. "That's not— do we..." He bites his lip. "I mean, it's... only ever going to be you for me." He screws up his face a little, as if they've never had these kind of conversations before. (They have, albeit, not about protection.)

 

"Oh." says Stevie, soft as anything. "Xab, I..." And he won't even look at him, so Xabi has his answer.

 

Xabi ducks his head shyly, reaches for his shirt. "I'll be back in twenty, yeah?" he says, pulling it on and hopping out of bed. "How's my hair?" He chuckles, glancing in the mirror, noticeably embarrassed.

 

He's halfway out their door, (and the dogs have bolted in) before Stevie finally manages anything at all. _"Wait."_

 

Xabi sticks his head in. "Yeah yeah, I'll drive safe, see you in a bit." He says with wave.

 

"Xab?" Stevie clambers out of the bed. "Hey, wait, c'mon. Come back here."

 

He's met, once again (as always) with a pitiful whine. "Stevie, the shops will be closed at eleven. I've got to leave now if you want..."

 

Stevie wraps his arms around Xabi's waist and pulls him back into his chest. "Nah, you don't." He says, "Come back to bed, yeah?"

 

"But you said, we're out—”

 

Stevie shrugs, "Yeah, but... it's only ever going to be you for me, too." and he can feel the air softly puff out of Xabi's lungs. "Only you, Xab. So. If you're okay without the protection, I am."

 

"R-really?"

 

"Yeah, I thought, I thought you didn't want me without protection because of... Tim?"

 

"I thought you and Tim always—”

 

"We did.”

 

"Okay."

 

Stevie smiles into Xabi's shoulder. "Okay." 

 

"So, why would I not want you?"

 

"I..."

 

"Stevie," Xabi says, dragging them both back into the bedroom. "I was waiting for _you_ to be alright with this."

 

"Me?"

 

"I'm the only one who's had anything unprotected."

 

Stevie grins at him, then lets his face fall suddenly and Xabi is a little put off by-- "What do you mean... unprotected...?" He growls slowly. "I thought your ratbags were delivered by a stork."

 

Xabi shoves him on bed. "They are _our_ ratbags, you loser."

 

* * *

 

 

As it turns out, the ease at which everything falls into place is fucking ridiculous and a little insulting to their previous identities as single men, and a single dad. 

 

One night, a month or two later, Ane tiptoes into their room and says with a quiet voice: "Papa? My head hurts." 

 

Xabi shifts slightly, pushing the doona (which was totally not at all 95% on his side) back onto Stevie. "Headache, hija?"

 

She nods, and Stevie sits up. "Xab, do you have a any lavender oil?" He asks softly, voice croaky from sleep.

 

"Ye-yeah, uh, bathroom cabinet." Xabi looks at him curiously.

 

Stevie rolls out of bed, lifts Ane up and into his arms.  "You stay here, alright?" He whispers, setting her down on his pillow. "... 'm going to be right back." He says, jogging out of the room and down the hallway. 

 

Ane stares at her Papa who shrugs lamely. "I have no idea, maybe he's some kind of witch doctor?"

 

She smiles slightly and hugs her plush dolphin tighter. 

 

Stevie returns with his hands cluttered. He has Ane's moon nightlight, which he plugs into their powerpoint before sitting down on his side of the bed and unloading a small bottle, face washer, and box of child-friendly painkillers onto the covers. He looks at Ane with all the love in the world and Xabi, if he wasn't so goddamn curious, would just roll over and go back to sleep. "When I used to get bad headaches, do you know what my ma did?" He asks, stroking her hair delicately. 

 

Ane shakes her head, looks at Xabi, who (again) frowns pathetically. 

 

Stevie smiles, "She used to massage my forehead with special smelly oils," he says softly, "and then, my head wouldn't hurt anymore."

 

"Really?" She whispers.

 

_"Really."_

 

Her eyes widen. "Could you do that for me?" Ane asks nervously.

 

 "W-well, I thought maybe Papa would, uh—" Stevie trails off, looks at Xabi.

 

"No," Ane says, snuggling down into Stevie's pillow and tugging on his hand. "Want you to,"

 

"Yeah, I could," Stevie agrees, "let's get you comfy then. Do you want to lie under Papa's doona?"

 

Ane nods, right as Xabi tries to dispute the facts with a muffled whine of: "OUR doona,"

 

Stevie lifts it up, as she rolls under it, and glances at Xabi knowingly. "It is so sweet that you think that, mate." He shuffles up to sit just beside Ane. "I'm going to rub some lavender on my fingers now okay, sweetie?" She nods again, and sighs faintly when the pads of Stevie's finger tips press gently against her forehead, drawing circles and rubbing pressure on her temples. 

 

Xabi stares at them. Has possibly never been more attracted to Stevie that what he is at the sight in front of him. Is also super aware that his boyfriend would quite happily kick him out of the bed if he tried anything.

 

Stevie catches his eye and smiles like an absolutely adorable human. "If it doesn't work, I've got some tablets here for you to—"

 

"Shhh," she says, "it's working, dad."

 

Stevie freezes. Manages (somewhat) to take a deep breath and force his fingers to keep working even if the rest of him is stuck on that exact moment in time. Even if the rest of him is going to remain stuck at 11:27pm on Tuesday the 9th for as long as he lives. 

 

Ane's smiling softly, her breathing calm, somewhat on the verge of sleep within a few minutes. Stevie loses himself. He has never loved anything his mum taught him more than this. More than—

 

Xabi reaches over to touch at his forearm, whispers: "Stevie, she's asleep."

 

Oh. He realises Ane is fast asleep, her head nestled between their pillows. He smiles at Xabi, says ever so quietly, _"yeah."_

 

Xabi leans over her, and with a shove to Pablo, and yes, Carra receives an accident knee to the back too, he cups Stevie's face and kisses him.

 

Stevie ends up getting his lavendery hands all over Xabi's chest but he just can't even bring himself to care because— "She loves you," Xabi says a few minutes after they both lie back down. "We all do."

 

* * *

 

It has been a few months, and Xabi has officially given up on trying to convince Stevie to eat before he gets home late on Thursdays. He has given up on expecting to come back to a quiet home with leftovers in the fridge and a warm body in his bed. The bed is never warm when they crawl into it, but his heart is, so it’s a pretty fair compromise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, but if don't be surprised if 25/? becomes a thing. I'm probably not completely done with Mr. Gerrard and Jon's dad but here lies the end of this story. (Unless you have ideas about how Mr. Gerrard pops the question) ((because I'm listening.))
> 
> You have been great readers despite my torturous inclinations, and this has been a lot of fun. Gracias for the kudos, but more than anything, the participation in deciding how this story should go. I MEAN, THEY NEVER WOULD HAVE GOT BURGERS WITH JON IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU GUYS.


	26. “We should share health insurance.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #surprise

Xabi stares down at the brightly coloured mat and _he is too old for this_. And the kids are too old to be leaving clutter around all the time. He shrugs off his satchel and slumps back against the front door. The stairs creak, and then panting heralds the arrival of Pablo at his feet with a sheepish and stubbled Stevie following him down the stairs. “Hey,”

 

“You let them play Twister?”

 

“They’re in bed by eight. My mission was a success.”

 

Xabi cocks an eyebrow, resolve weakening. “Jon?” He asks wearily (warily).

 

“Had dinner, did a bit of homework, he’ll probably be down to eat two loaves of bread in a couple of hours though,” Stevie grins. “How was your day?”

 

“… tiring.”

 

Stevie kisses his cheek. “Dinner is in the oven.” He replies, lifting Xabi’s bag from the floor to the couch. “C’mon, let’s eat.”

 

It’s been a few months, and Xabi has officially given up on trying to convince Stevie to eat before he gets home. He’s given up on expecting to come back to a quiet home with leftovers in the fridge and a warm body in his bed. The bed is never warm when they crawl into it, but his heart is, so it’s a pretty fair compromise.

 

* * *

 

“Wanna play?” Asks Stevie, putting the plates away.

 

“No,”

 

“C’mon,” Stevie tries, gently rubbing his thumb to Xabi's wrist. “we can even have adult rules.”

 

Xabi doesn’t remember the last time he had adult time. He narrows his eyes. “What would it involve?”

 

“Getting naked,”

 

“…here?”

 

“Strip Twister,” Stevie grins.

 

“Who are you and what have you done with Mr. Gerrard?”

 

Stevie pushes him softly, presses him against the bench top. “Babe, come onnnn.”

 

Xabi whines. "I am old."

 

* * *

 

 Xabi is clad in his boxers and socks. It is cold.

 

A fully clothed (warm), Stevie presses his knee to the red dot, as required, but then lets it slide off of the colour.

 

“…’m pretty sure that’s cheating.” Xabi mumbles.

 

“Mmmh,” Stevie says quietly. “Yeah, probably. All for you."

 

Xabi eyes his chest. Stevie has taken to wearing button-downs instead of t-shirts twice a week. They are nice to come home to. Sometimes the gaps between the buttons show a little bit more than Stevie would like, but he still refuses to get them tailored. “Your shirt isn’t coming off for me, is it?”

 

Stevie's shirt remains buttoned. Instead, he kicks off his jeans, smiles up at Xabi. “We should share health insurance.” He says, voice a bit shaky.

 

“What?” Xabi sighs. Runs his hand through his fringe.

 

“Could get married or something, y’know.” Stevie laughs.

 

Xabi laughs tiredly. “Easier ways to do it than that. Stevie, can we just go to bed?”

 

Stevie ducks his head, kind of feels as though he’s falling. “Yeah.” He struggles to his feet. “Hey, I’ll meet you up there. I’ll just go put the dishwasher on, okay?”

 

But Xabi pulls him in, kisses him, soft and steady. “I have full health insurance.” He mumbles into Stevie’s mouth. “Comprehensive for the whole family,” he continues, alternating between breathing and pressing kisses to Stevie’s jaw.

 

“Oh,” Stevie mumbles, because now isn’t really the time he intended to bring up how complicated baby-making paperwork is, even for married couples. Now isn’t really the time to admit that he’s checked. He was just hoping that— asking Xabi’s parents wouldn’t have been utterly in vain. “Okay. Well. I’ll just— you hop into bed, alright? I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

Xabi frowns, but relinquishes his grasp of Stevie’s wrist. “Be quick, it’s cold without you.”

 

Stevie presses himself up against the bench, hard. Wishes he could slam his fist into the fridge or into a window or into the wall without it waking the kids. Wishes he could curl up, under the kitchen table, perhaps. It’s been ten months, and he has not felt this alone once. It isn’t really about the health insurance or baby forms, he’d just really like to spend the rest of his life with this man.

 

Fifteen minutes, two glasses of milk, and a minor panic attack later, Stevie tiptoes up the stairs and into Xabi’s room (their room, he tries to remind himself). He wipes his eyes one last time before he lifts his head.

  
  
Xabi is sitting up in bed, chest bare. Worried eyes focusing on the man in front of him. “I was going to come down, but I wasn’t sure if…”

 

Stevie doesn’t meet his gaze. Instead he chuckles weakly. “I think I can handle the dishwasher on my own, mate.” Don’t let your lip quiver now, don’t do this now, Stevie.

 

Xabi doesn’t laugh. “I…”

 

Stevie's fingers numbly struggle with his buttons, finally shrugging it off his shoulders, and pulling on his trackies. Rummaging through his undies draw. “Have you seen any of my socks? I thought I washed a bunch of—”

 

“We combined our sock draw, top left.” Xabi replies, but Stevie can feel the hesitance in his voice.

 

“Ah,” he manages back, voice cracking. He presses his palms to the top of the dresser, a futile attempt to stabilise himself, but his heart is in his stomach, his centre of balance completely blown. He takes a deep breath in, then lets it go. Reaches for the handle.

 

“Stevie,” Xabi tries. “What’s wrong?”

 

Stevie grasps an odd pair of socks. Stripes. He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes drawn to the ground. Fumbles with the first sock. “I love you, you know.” He says, hoarse. “I’m going to for the rest of my life. It’s not going to change, regardless of...” He pulls it up snugly, some comfort at last. “Even if you won’t. Even if you don’t want me to. I can’t really help it anymore.” He whispers. "It's too late. I can't just tell my heart to stop it."

 

Xabi reaches out to touch his shoulder. “Stevie.” He says, more determined this time. “I love you as well.”

 

“But?” Stevie murmurs. “It’s just not enough? I don’t have anything else to offer.”

 

“When did I— when did I ever ask for more?”

 

Stevie’s breath hitches. Socks on, he swings his legs up and under the covers. Reaches for his lamp switch. Plunging them into darkness doesn’t make him feel any better but at least any tear stains on his face are no longer visible. After a little while, Xabi shifts, and rests his head back on the pillow.

 

“What is this about?” Xabi whispers, suddenly aware that neither of them are near sleep or anything else resembling a bed activity.

 

Stevie bites at his lip, and mumbles: “I wanted to marry you. Asked your parents months ago, and all.”

 

“You asked my dad if you could—”

 

“Your mother. Jon is teaching me about the Basque matriarchy.”

 

Xabi sighs. “Jesus Stevie. I thought you were just talking about health cover, because the forms for you to transfer onto the family insurance have been on the kitchen table for weeks. I thought you weren’t interested in—”

 

Stevie sniffles. “I am interested.”

 

“Well,” Xabi gentles his thumb along Stevie’s forehead. “Alright.”

 

“We don’t have to.” Stevie whispers.

 

“I never really though that we wouldn’t… grow old together..” Xabi’s hand fumbles beneath the sheets for Stevie’s fingers. He pulls them out and presses them to his lips. “I had just thought that… we were. That _this_ was it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember how i said no weddings?
> 
> I MAINTAIN WHAT I SAID


End file.
